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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND 



OUR COUNTRY 



JEFFREY W. POTTER 



BOSTON 
JAMES H. EARLE, PUBLISHER 

178 WASHINGTON STREET 




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41344 

Copyright, 1S99 
By JEFFREY W. POTTER 

All rights reserved 
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PREFACE. 



The author would most respectfully say, that after 
mature consideration and with a degree of reluctance, he 
has consented to present to the readers and lovers of 
poetry a few verses and sentiments he has long cher- 
ished as essential to good citizenship, and which he 
hopes may be found worthy the attention of readers of 
this volume. 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

Roger Williams . 9 

Roger Williams Visiting Canonicus .... 10 

Narragansett Bay . 11 

Massasoit Visiting the Plymouth Colony ... 13 

Dr. William Henry Hazard 16 

Judge Elisha R. Potter 17 

The South Kingston Soldier iS 

The Burial of a Revolutionary Soldier at Annie Boo 

Castle 19 

My Birthplace Scenery 22 

Seaweeding at Rocky Point ...... 24 

A Revolutionary Story ....... 26 

Richard Henry Lee 29 

Franklin at Matunuck 31 

Commodore Perry's Old Home ..... 32 

Colors of the American Flag ...... 34 

Washington Elm in Boston, Cut Down in 1S75 • • .3^ 

Benedict Arnold 38 

New England Voices 40 

America 41 

Our Revolutionary Dead ...... 42 

An Evening Scene ........ 44 

The Blue-bird Singing, Feb. 17, 1S94 .... 45 

Ocean Shore 46 

Liberty's Bell en route for Atlanta E.xposition, 1895 • 47 

Scotland's Immortal Bards ...... 49 

Columbia in the Coils of a Leviathan ... 50 

Washington in 1750 . 52 

The Patriots of 1776 53 



CONTENTS. 



Our Ship of State 55 

The Oak Tree Planted at the Two Hundredth Anniver- 
sary of King Phillip's Death, Mount Hope, Aug. 

24, 1876 57 

Tash-tash-uck and His Country ..... 59 

John Brown ......... 60 

Gen. John C. Fremont 62 

Not Shoot the Eagle .64 

Our Constitution 66 

Washington ......... 67 

America's First Battle at Lexington . . .69 

Daniel Boone ......... 70 

Hudson Discovering the Highlands .... 73 

Immortal Virginians . . . 75 

The Mind of Man 76 

Abraham Lincoln 77 

Beautiful Days ........ 79 

A Summer Hour ........ 81 

Massasoit 82 

Washington at Prayer 83 

Lincoln at Gettysburg ....... 85 

The Indians' Royal Burying-ground in Charlestown, R. I. 87 

A Gull on Black Rock, Rocky Point, South Kingston . 89 

Springtime Memories ....... 90 

Each Mind a World 91 

Hawaii .......... 93 

Washington and the Constitution 95 

Washington Upon the Battlements of American Liberty 97 

The Birthplace of Lincoln 99 

Tempest of Jan. 25, 1893 loi 

South Kingston Before the Division .102 

Sheridan's Arrival at Cedar Creek . . .104 

General Grant, en route for Mount McGregor, Passing 

West Point 105 

The American Soldier . . . . . . .106 

Spring's First Sunset, 1894 loS 

Liberty Address to the Patriots of 1775 .... 109 

The Pen of Longfellow 1 1 1 



CONTENTS. 



Ticonderoga, 1775 • • • • • .112 

John Brown's Monument Raised at North Elba, N. Y., 

July 21, 1S96 113 

An Ode to Spring . . . .115 

Mind in America . . . . .116 

TheThought ofOld Age 118 

Eternity 119 

Statue of Columbus Unveiled in Chicago . . .120 
Massasoit's Arrival at Newport . . . .122 

Our Assassinated Garfield 123 

The French Assisting America 124 

The Patriotism of Lafayette 125 

The Sword of Washington . . . . .126 

The Staff of Franklin 129 

Some Thoughts for the Future 130 

The Laboring Man 131 

Boys, Buy a Home . . '33 

Battle of Rhode Island, Aug. 29, 1778 .... 135 
Father at the Battle of Stonington, Aug. 14, 1S13 . 137 

Our New Navy . . . . 13S 

Potter's Pond 140 

Grant at Fort Donelson 141 

Slavery .......... 142 

Loss of the Steamship Columbus, Jan. 18, 1884 . . 144 
Loss of the Schooner John Paul, Feb. 10, 1893 • '45 

The Lifeboat's Return to Point Judith, from a Gale of 

Wind, 1SS5 147 

Winter 147 

My Old Hoe 148 

Our Continent . 149 

Our Presidents . . .151 

Lincoln Coming to Illinois 155 

The Heartbroken Slave Mother 157 

Lope de Aguirre's Most Desperate Act in Stabbing His 

Daughter, Fearing She Might Fall into the Hands 

of His Pursuers 160 

The Mother at the Crucifixion ..... 162 
Our Nation's Designment 164 



CONTENTS. 



The World's Progress, Beginning at the Birth of Wash- 
ington 167 

Washington with the Fate of America . . . .169 
The Union Should Never Dissolve 171 

National Election Day 174 

The American Independence . -175 

The Ax, Plow, and Spade 177 

My Mother's Robin 178 

The Whip-poor-will . . . . . .180 

Benjamin Harrison, 1886 182 

Autumn Winds 183 

The Planet Saturn 185 

Grant's Burial Honored by His Foe ... 186 
Liberty's Visit to the Family of Nations . .187 

The Burial of Grant, Aug. 8, 18S5 ... .192 

The National Flower 193 

Our Best Men 194 

The Indian's Return to His Birthplace .... 196 
An Address to the Egyptian Obelisk Erected in Central 

Park, N. Y 199 

The Wonders of Etna ....... 203 

Our Old Ship Constitution . . ... 204 

The Stranding of the Kearsarge 205 

Rivers of Narragansett .... . . 207 

Samuel T. Perry 209 

Rowland G. Hazard 211 

Lincoln Leaving Illinois . ... ... 212 

John Bright 214 

Napoleon Bonaparte .215 

Independence Days . .216 

My Mother's Birthplace 218 

Speech of Logan, a Mingo Chief 220 

Sitting Bull 223 

The Fall of Wolfe, Sept. 13, 1759 224 

John Ericsson . . _ 225 

Our Flag ..." 227 

At General Sherman's Funeral 229 

Lincoln Entering Richmond 230 



POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND AND OF OUR COUNTRY. 



ROGER WILLIAMS. 

RHODE ISLAND'S founder, O how great 
Was his good soul for man in thralls ! 
A million shafts to cloud-land raised, 
A million songs to give him praise. 
Could never tell the story all. 
'T was midnight, and the soul was chained 
By royal mandate stern and long; 
But Freedom and great God proclaimed 
Such was a universal wrong. 
He brought no bow nor saber sheathed 
As his protector with wild men ; 
But all alone while winter breathed, 
He landed with his boat and pen. 

The new world's continent from dreams 
Was waking to the rosy morn ; 
But angry clouds were thickening fast 
Like harvest skies before the blast, — 
And was it night or really dawn ? 
The sorrows of the old world homes 
Had blighted all the minds with fear, 
Until an exiled life becomes 
A paradise in forests drear ; 



POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



No cannon frowned, no fortress gate, 
No friend but God upon the shore, 
The mighty Williams dared his fate 
To savage hands, with pen and oar. 

Nature's wild children loved to see 

The peace-clad harbinger appear ; 

For instinct taught their hearts that day 

To show great mercy, and obey 

The teaching of a spirit dear ; 

They knew not him, but God was there 

To shield, protect, and guide the hour ; 

For 'twas a germ 'neath heaven's high care. 

Which should give beauty, grace, and power. 

No conquering arms attend the scene, 

No banners wave from shore or cliff; 

But mightier forces lay serene 

In him who brought the pen and skiff. 



ROGER WILLIAMS VISITING CANONICUS. 

THE winter winds had crisped the leaf 
And buried all the fields in storm, 
While in the wigwam sat the chief 

In peace, at home, contented, warm, 
While proud New England's noblest boy 
Was without shelter, food, employ. 

The monarch turned his eyes and saw 
A pale face on his forest lawn ; 



THE NARRAGANSETT BAY 



No bow nor implement of war 

Was in hand, so young and strong ; 
But peace was on that gentle face 
And bosom warm for human race. 

That royal hand of manly deeds 

Soon took the stranger's, cold as snow. 

And gave to him the many needs 
That life requires in days of woe. 

And sheltered him from storms and strife 

And for a nation saved his life. 

But when the new year's spring was born, 
And sunny winds refreshed the hills. 

He set forth with a purpose strong, 
With everlasting truths to fill, 

And planned the building of our state 

And guarded round its infant fate. 



THE NARRAGANSETT BAY. 

THOU deep blue waves of classic worth, 
When centuries roll their many rounds. 
For tales told when the nation's birth 
Was giving life, for here the hearth 

Where mighty deed was born with honor crowned. 

The little bay that opens up our state 

To pleasant shores, and islands fair, 
Bares to their honor certain fates, 



POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



Which makes our land happy and great 
And has among our victories full its share. 

These waves that steal from ocean wide 
And ripple round those rock-based isles, 

Once bore the man whose bark did glide 

For refuge o'er its gentle tide 

From men more dangerous than the Indians wild. 

He moored beside a grove-bound coast, 

All silent there in winter's wood ; 
No one to welcome but a host 
Of savage men, and he almost 

Famished for want of shelter and of food. 

With that big heart from whence we've drawn 

The inspirations which have spread 
The nation o'er, that man is born 
With freedom. Then let conscience form 

The right of way that he to God be led. 

A century later did that awful fleet 

Frown with such vengeance on thy waves, 

That freedom ever more must greet 

For our good allies made complete 

That victory which sunk our tyranny in graves. 

Green islands fair, deep harbors blue, 

Where once great ships of battle lay 
Where once a heart with purpose true 
Rowed through the storm for me and you. 
That made immortal Narragansett Bay. 



VISITING THE PLYMOUTH COLONY. 13 

Yes, Narragansett Bay ! Its name 

Must live forever, and how bright 
It lives in history and fame, 
Where Roger Williams seeking came. 

And lo, a city, where he moored that night. 

That mighty heart so full and warm — 

I must repeat his deeds of zeal ; 
A Nation's honor rests thereon, 
Our Christian joys to him belong, 

A world it teaches and a world will feel. 



MASSASOIT VISITING THE PLYMOUTH 
COLONY. 

WHEN this old Indian king, so good. 
Had heard within his neighborhood, 
Some men had come from sea, 
With gracious heart, with mind elate. 
He hastened on to see what fate 
For him and them might be. 

'T was winter both in skies and field. 
And deep the frozen drift concealed 

The paths his woodland o'er ; 
But heart of good to lend a hand 
To those upon the ocean strand, 

He hastened to the shore. 



14 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

He saw beneath the naked limb 

The moose which noticed not its king ; 

The deer slow bounded on ; 
The rugged bear with voice so loud 
Of winter's snowbanks felt as proud 

As would the summer's storm. 

The bearskin round his shoulders spread, 
The eagle wing adorned his head ; 

His feet in fur were warm ; 
His belt was wide, 't was of the deer, 
His right hand bore his battle spear. 

His tomahawk undrawn. 

So came the king, his lordl}^ look 
To every trusting pilgrim took 

The sense of no mean soul. 
With broken accent and with sign 
His personage he did divine, 

Also the shores control. 

He proffered friendship, and the grace 
Within the pilgrim heart found place 

Sweeter to them than gold ; 
His royal blessing bore them up 
Till springtime brought the buttercup, 

And hillside flowers unfold. 

Old Massasoit's bow that night 
Was to those seaworn men delight; 
His memory must be well, 



VISITING THE PLYMOUTH COLONY. 15 

For without his endearing hand. 

His wish to live upon the strand, 

What sorrows might befell. 

Who would to-day the journey make 
A life would he for ransom take, 

With half the prey in sight ; 
But Massasoit, lost to fear, 
Defied the winter moose and deer 

With that stern heart of might. 

The waves dashed on the Plymouth shore, 
In breezes cold the echo bore 

To him in woodland vale, 
He knew before the sunset's gold 
Was for the dying day unrolled 

His journey's end would hail. 

His eager eye from hilltop far 

Soon caught the anchored ship and spar. 

Appeared a thing of life ; 
And then the fathers of our praise 
Together caught his awful gaze 

'In more than mortal strife. 

Wearied and sick and cold and sad, 
They saw the savage and were glad ; 

For strength and hope were low. 
They knew his mien and step were well. 
For instinct many times will tell 

Who is our friend or foe. 



1 6 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



DR. WILLIAM HENRY HAZARD, 
DIED AUGUST 4, 1894. 

SOUTH Kingston bows before Jehovah's will, 
To thank his name which gave the mighty soul 
Who threescore years with more than mortal skill 
Has lived to save and destinies control. 

We take the reed to fathom or survey 
The seas or empire of his usefulness. 

But all is lost, like mist before the day, 
And generations stop only to bless. 

Our oldest men whose locks are wintered o'er, 

Speak of his worth in those glad morning hours 
When they were boys. For then those deeds in 

store 
Began to deck his path like new-blown flowers. 

And all along his glorious march of life. 

We hear his worth. As pearls upon the sand 

When new-born waves roll in from ocean strife. 
So every household has his memories grand. 

His years go down into the lap of praise. 
Volumes will fail his mercies to record ; 

The poor man home, the harvest of his days 
Will from his Maker get the sweet reward. 



JUDGE ELISHA R. POTTER. 17 



JUDGE ELISHA R. POTTER. 

RHODE Island's sincere heart now bleeds 
To part with him so rich in deeds 
To those deserving grace. 
May his high post be filled as must 
By one whom we shall learn to trust, 
For great indeed the place ! 

We 've seen the sympathetic tear 
Well out towards one young in years, 

Who had much evil done. 
The mother's heart was in the case, 
And always mothers have a place 

Towards the wayward son. 

Our dear old Judge's heart did yield, 
With all the powers of state to wield, 

In the behalf of tears. 
Reason and right and law and power 
Were his to weigh upon the hour ; 

But reason was more dear. 

A hundred stories from the heart 
Might some within the state impart, 

Where mercy's hand was seen. 
He graced his ermine and his trust, 
As only God's great servants must. 

In moments so supreme. 



POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



THE SOUTH KINGSTOWN SOLDIER. 

SOLDIERS, we have a country new, 
Well stored with patriotism true 
From age to age. 
But see its noblest deed in you, 
In battle's rage. 

How could our country e'er have been 
A land of liberty for men, 

Unless you 'd fought ! 
The sword must come before the pen 

When truth is naught. 

These battlements of peace and law 
Are but the fruits of cruel war, 

Where sires and sons 
Have died on battle-fields afar. 

And victory won. 

No backgrounds then brave men for you. 
No shadows lengthening in the view. 

But all is morn. 
Not half the praise your rightful due 

To hearts is born. 

To count the agonies yet past. 
Or try to tell of dangers vast, 

Is out of power. 
A day would build a history vast 

And even hours. 



THE BURIAL OF A SOLDIER. 19 

Stop all ! Reflect their work was great, 
Their lives stood ransom for the state, 

And won the day. 
Hold nothing back, for truth is weight 

And brave were they. 



THE BURIAL OF A REVOLUTIONARY 
SOLDIER AT ANNIE BOO CASTLE. 

WAY down in local history 
There bubbles up a strain 
That children of old neighbors 
Have heard over again. 

It was the solemn burial 

Of one both old and gray, 
Who thrice fought for his country. 

And three times won the day. 

For when the last great enemy 

Was marshaled on the plain, 
His hosts of manhood and of strength 

Did fall among the slain. 

And fast the sorry note of death 

Had spread o'er fields and hill. 
That Uncle Joe, so brave in strife, 

A soldier grave will fill. 



POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



The glories of his victories 

Were not so bright as now ; 
Yet laurels for his destiny 

Were placed upon his brow. 

For time's great hand, with thankful heart, 

Will see that all is well, 
And generations yet will rise, 

Their stories long to tell. 

The old, old neighbors of his time 

Could not appreciate 
So well of Uncle Joseph's worth 

As fifty years more late. 

But all his neighbors, high and low, 

Made it a holiday, 
Their loyal sympathy to show 

Towards their soldier gray. 

It was when fields and hillsides 
Were burnished with the gold 

Of autumn's many tints and shades 
Which plain and wood enfold ; 

For laurel leaves and golden-rod. 

And wild rose withered stem. 
Were nodding on uncultured ground, — 

The summer's sweetest gem. 

No banner but the tall green pine. 
No music but the leaves 



THE BURIAL OF A SOLDIER. 

Rustling upon the dying hills, — 
The winter's worthless sheaves. 

No martial note, but wail of wood, 

Attended on the scene ; 
No banner wave nor plume to grace 

The moments so supreme. 

And soon the good old soldier 

Was buried in the ground, 
And how many tried to sketch 

His life with honor crowned, 

And to begin to measure up. 

Or fathom out his worth. 
Was all beyond their outstretched hand, 

As stars above the earth. 

But yet his glory was as bright 

And brilliant as to-day ; 
Ages will rise and ages fall. 

And yet they cannot say 

What worth the old gray soldier 

Did ransom from the field 
For them and us and all to have, 

And never give nor yield. 

His valor made a continent 

More stout than half the world. 

The banner which he bore in war 
By traitor is not furled. 



POEMS OF NEIV ENGLAND. 



The victories of those old days gone 
Were fought by heroes true, 

Men like the rock that girds the hill, 
Men firm as oak trees grew. 

Old Uncle Joe was at the base, 
The bed-rock was his plan 

On which a nation's lasting pride 
And freedom long should stand. 

Yes, Uncle Joe helped build all this. 

With ready hands of war, 
He brought the eagle from the wood, 

From heaven he took the star. 

And hung it on his conquering flag, 
A day beam, and the night 

The spirit of old Uncle Joe 

Was warrior's crowned with might. 



MY BIRTHPLACE SCENERY. 

AROUND this quiet home of mine 
Is one huge beauty seen ; 
In all the workmanship divine 
This is the one supreme, — 
It is the ocean, and its shore 
Whose awful thunders round the world doth roar. 



MV BIRTHPLACE SCENERY. 23 

Oft have I looked upon the deep, 

So mighty and so grand, 
With pity ; for it could not sleep 

Nor rest from its command ; 
For every breeze that passed it o 'er 
Caused some green wave to roll a little more. 

The northward hills so sterile rise, 

In deep repose so grand. 
The western wood seem touch the skies, 

In voiceless silence stand, 
Hail ! happy fields, thy breath is pure. 
And ever firm while day and night endure. 

The vales, the hills, the forests, too. 

The rich green meadows all. 
Are ever dear as oft I view 

Their pleasures never small ; 
In boyhood days from now till then 
I Ve seen them yield their harvest o 'er again. 

So round my home has Nature's hand 

Thrown out her choicest scenes ; 
Her lakes and prairies, too, are grand, 

Her mountains are supreme; 
But give me my own billowy sea 
Whose voice will roll to all eternity. 



24 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



SEAWEEDING AT ROCKY POINT. 

5' I ^ WAS midnight and the boist'rous seas 

X Were rolling to the shore, 
And winter's might had tinged the breeze 

As scarce had done before. 

The bar soon was with breakers white, 

And all the beach a-foam, 
All hands were wearied for the night 

And many sighed for home. 

By chance I saw ride o 'er the wave 

A large white gull at ease, 
Which noticed not the ocean rave. 

Nor winter's icy breeze. 

The tide that roared a tempest nigh. 

The winds cold as could be. 
The little gull seemed to defy — 

The raging of the sea. 

As if an anchor held him there — 

He rides the seas with ease ; 
What but the bird such dangers dare 

Upon those dreadful seas ? 



We know it was a customed spot 
For gulls to find retreat. 

But that cold winter's night a lot 
Most hard for life to keep. 



SEAWEEDING AT ROCKY POINT. 25 

But in his cradle all the night 

He rocked the hours away, 
Regardless of the billows might 

And dashing of the spray. 

But oft I watched the little bird 

With thoughts of deep concern, 
Why he should go without a word 

And risk his place so stern ? 

Was he the watchman for the reef ? 

Was that his post to sleep ? 
Was ocean wrath to him no grief, 

Whose vigil must he keep? 

When Nature formed the shores so vast, 

Did she his life ordain 
To spend it in the surf and blast. 

And perils of the main ? 

The mountains are the eagles' home. 

The wood the owls retreat, 
Was ocean for the gull to roam 

And sport upon the deep ? 

Was he her lightship for the coast. 

When storms the sea enrage. 
To guide some wandering mortal host 

Safely in every age ? 

The moon began to silver o'er 
The post where he had sway, 



26 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

But billows kept continual roar, 
Yet rode the gull as gay. 

We left him with conclusion full 
That such was his delight, 

Old ocean's breakers for the gull, 
Both daytime and the night. 

The freezing foam his couch of sleep, 
The billow's wrath his glee. 

Brave as the thunder of the deep, 
And as the wave, as free. 

But little bird you rested well. 
It must have been delight 

To ride those foam-clad ocean swells 
Through that cold winter's night. 

But none can counsel you, dear bird. 
Though all can know you 're brave. 

And who but you without a word 
Would slept upon the wave ? 



A REVOLUTIONARY STORY. 

WHEN royal thunder broke on Newport coast, 
One hundred years ago, the mighty host 
Of naval warships ploughed the main. And fray 
Began. But storm was mightier, and the day 
Was lost. But England felt it more — because 
Her grip was stronger; and her prestige, laws — 



A REVOLUT/ON/IRV STORY. 27 

Was proud as Ccesar, when his tenth legion came 
Home victorious from every battle plain. 
Our fathers saw, and close beside the helm 
They lay, lest awful war in turmoil whelm 
Their country's cause, and sad dishonor be 
Their fate ; in struggling, hoping to be free. 
When boom of cannon from that powerful fleet 
Began to shake the shores and shut the deep 
From mortal visage, Old South Kingstown lay 
Abreast the fight, off Narragansett bay. 
But valiant sires who were not in the camp, 
Armed for defence along the seaward banks. 
To stay all ravage, since their aim was sure; 
For deep down in each heart their motive pure, 
Right, as defence to save endangered life. 
Theirs thrice as pure, for country, home, and wife 
Were in the scales. And when their own dear fate 
Was sealed, then all the rest. Think not how great. 
But if 't was lost in those eventful days, 
A Spartan band would only live in praise. 
The nation's arms then lay at Green's command. 
Where summer waves washed on the Portsmouth's 

sands. 
And Washington knew that the cloud must burst. 
As England was for our good blood athirst. 
So urged the father of his struggling land, 
With Lafayette and Schuyler to command 
The coming strife, augmenting every day. 
To bear the plume or take the plume away. 
My grandsire saw the hero of the times 
Ride by. The sun's last shadows shone 



28 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

On hilt and buckle. But that towering form 

Upon his charger caught the village throng 

And long they looked. Till winding paths and night 

Closed up the scene of life, the grandest sight . 

They ever saw. A man whom God had raised 

To guide the state, for millions yet to praise. 

For then his glory and his worth had filled 

The world with awe, and reverence deeply thrilled 

All men. For to be wise in every place 

Was but an household word, his name a grace. 

He knew the right ; unfaltering with the trust 

He obeyed conscience as a general must. 

Too feeble is our pen to tell his deed. 

A world cannot. Therefore let us plead 

Our inefficient powers ; for none can dare 

To measure up his heart, and none compare 

His work. For none his rivals ever find 

So good, so magnanimous to mankind. 

My father said he was a little boy, 
Was with his grandsire at the smith's employ. 
When news had reached that Washington was dead ; 
My father said his grandsire dropped his head 
And wept. The winter's robe of white was laid 
Upon the hillside and the plain, but staid 
Was every feature of his household dear. 
No smile was there, but on each cheek a tear. 
All men must think of those illustrious days, 
And set apart in life one hour to praise 
Great God, for giving us a man whose power 
Saved us this land in that eventful hour. 



RICHARD HENRY LEE. 29 



RICHARD HENRY LEE. 

FOREVER live that blessed name 
Of Richard Henry Lee, 
Who first in congress moved to make 
This a new nation free. 

These thirteen colonies were then 

At war with motherland, 
But Lee purposed that they should be 

A nation strong and grand. 

This patriot theme soon took a form. 

Till every heart grew brave. 
For what was use of battle-fields. 

What use of soldier's grave, 

Unless they fought for some great cause, 

More than to drive a foe ? 
But Richard Henry Lee proposed 

A nation, too, should grow. 

His theme was sweet to every lip. 

True hearts of high decree 
Were then preparing soon to speak 

And vote the country free. 

Aroused was every heart with hope. 
Brave were the battle power ; 

For they desired to fight more hard 
For Independence hour. 



30 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

It was their theme. The soldier stood; 

They watched the hall of state. 
They knew as well as Richard Lee 

That with them was the fate. 

The earnest days of calm debate, 
The force of word and gun, 

To do their share on battle-fields 
What congress had begun. 

A month rolled on. July the fourth. 

That was the final day 
For these immortal patriot men 

Their bosoms to obey. 

Each hand rose up, the bell rang long. 
Our nation's birth was given. 

No greater mandate could be done, 
No grander deed for heaven. 

But Richard Henry Lee is first 

When Fame her wreath shall shower. 

Though simply first and that is all 
For this eternal hour. 

Long live the great Virginian ! 

His name must ever be 
The statesman that revealed the thought 

To make our country free. 



FRANKLIN AT MATUNUCK. 31 



FRANKLIN AT MATUNUCK. 

THE chilly winds had stripped the tree, 
Primeval on the rocky hills, 
And forest life had lost its glee, 

While sleet the skies of winter fills ; 

Around the hearth of that old inn 
The local blackguards all had met, 

To pass the day with joke and grin, 
And on their dogs good fighting bet. 

When presently the door ajar. 

And through it came a rugged form, 

A stranger, all supposed, from far. 
And wet his coat, with beating storm. 

Without regard to friend or foe. 

They keep their cowhides dry and warm 
And how he won his seat you know 

Is famous as the world is long. 

But yet the story I will tell 

Of how he won that day his seat. 

" My man do you some oysters sell ? 
If so my horse wants some to eat." 

So out the blackguards went with speed 
To see the horse eat oyster's shells ; 

But no way cared the restive steed 
To look at them or even smell. 



32 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

So quick the landlord and the crowd 

Came back and said, "Your horse won't eat. 

" Well, then I will," says Franklin, loud ; 
For by the fire he had his seat. 

Oh, could they thought that kingly form 
Was Franklin, ever loved and great. 

With wisdom to disarm the storm. 
And guide a struggling nation's fate! 

Oh, could they thought he then did bear 
Some mission yet his land to bless ! 

We think a seat with honest care 
Would been provided for his rest. 

Yes, could they thought the truest heart 
New England ever gave beat there, 

A score would at his presence start, 
A score would offered him a chair. 



COMMODORE PERRY'S OLD HOME. 

SOUTH KINGSTOWN love to feel and know 
That Perry's name is theirs ; 
They love to go and look awhile 
From all the many cares. 

Upon the hills of memory dear, 
The old gray homestead, too. 



COMMODORE PERRY'S OLD HOME. 33 

Where Perry from a little boy 
To lad's estate did grow. 

We stand and round the prospect gaze 

On scenes historic now; 
The wreath of fame is on his hills, 

As on his sterling brow. 

The spring which bubbles by the rock,. 

The stream so clear and sweet, 
A thousand times the commodore 

In youthful days did meet. 

While on the playgrounds of his youth 

We thought of Erie's wave, 
Where he those bolts of battle hurled. 

Till he the victory saved. 

When his warship, the Lawrence proud,. 

Was shattered in the storm. 
His youthful valor knew no bounds, 

But for the strife was born. 

He lowered away 'mid battle's smoke 

Through roar of cannons loud, 
And climbed upon Niagara's deck 

Undaunted, brave and proud. 

And with a hand almost supreme 

He guides the battle's fate. 
Till England's old majestic flag 

Perceived the foe is great. 



34 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

There in the red embrace of death 

The hero swept away 
The fortunes of King George's fleet, 

On that September day. 

The valor of the commodore 

Upon Lake Erie's coast 
Has ever been a story brave, 

For everyone a boast. 

Such deed of war, such triumph won, 

Will ever be our joy, 
His fame, like these Matunuck hills, 

No vandal can destroy. 



COLORS OF THE AMERICAN FLAG. 

FROM whence did these bright colors come? 
Where is their birthland given ? 
Are they on morning's gateway hung 
Upon the orient heaven ? 

The red stripe is the coming hue 

Of that immortal day. 
When o'er the world the brave and true 

By God's decree shall sway. 

The blue is for the glorious day 
That shocked the world afar. 



COLORS OF THE AMERICAN FLAG. 35 



When these old patriot arms in fray 
Brought glory from the war. 

The white is that serener rift, 

The joy, the purer light, 
\\'hich lit the pathway as a gift, 

To lead them in the right. 

These glorious hues our banner grace, 

Are on the morning skies, 
The noontide softness has its place, 

The evening beauty lies. 

Star after star will deck these folds. 

As states come into birth, 
To shine around this band of old. 

Whose thirteen shocked the earth. 

Then wave away, flag of the skies. 

Graced with divinest hues. 
Where'er dost float, oppression dies. 

And Freedom reigns more true. 

Flag of our land, bright with the stars 

That shine in silent night, 
Deep with the hues where broke the bars 

From whence our joys and might. 

Flag of the evening and the morn, 

No sweeter rays are given 
Than those upon our ensign worn, 

The colors of the heaven. 



36 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



THE WASHINGTON ELM IN BOSTON, 
CUT DOWN IN 1875. 

BENEATH the broad, majestic boughs 
Of this most ancient elm, 
Did Washington, with garland brow. 
Assume the battle helm. 

The beauty of his young, sweet day 

Took on his star of power, 
While Briton was upon the bay, 

Their smoke within the bower. 

But what a wondrous change there 's been 

Since that proud day of old. 
When freedom was with valiant men, 

Which made them true and bold. 

To look back through the misty age, 

Since that old tree has stood. 
No hand but time can write the page 

Of its great neighborhood. 

The savage dynasties of old. 

Ten thousand stormy gales, 
Alas, the cradle did behold 

Young Freedom's birth to hail. 

Its topmost bough had seen the fleet 
When Pilgrim fathers came. 



THE WASHINGTON ELM IN BOSTON. 37 

A watch-tower, both for shore and deep, 
Tree of remotest fame. 

The savage whoop, the horn's sad shrill. 

The tomahawk agleam. 
Long centuries, over shore and hill. 

Have been its common scene. 

It heard the cries, that awful night, 

When British soldiers red 
Did massacre till morning light, 

And half the city dead. 

It heard the roar of Bunker's gun 

Vibrate through leaf and limb, 
The signal note of war had come, 

To fight with George the king. 

It heard the groan when Warren fell. 

On that old battle hill; 
It saw a city rise to tell 

And do his dying will. 

The memories of this dear old tree, 

Its wonders to be told. 
Time chronicles its age ; but we 

Cannot those truths unfold. 

The memories of this tree are great, 

'T is dear to every heart, 
Made more so by the nation's fate 

First taking there its start. 



38 POEMS OF AEW ENGLAND. 

And then it had a century's strength 
To flourish and be proud, 

The new world but a span in length, 
At sunrise but a cloud. 

Compared unto its mighty years 

Giant, antique, and gray, 
Thy beauty and thy strength and tears 

Have all been swept away. 



BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

THIS grand old name in former days 
So bright in war's renown. 
But somehow did misfortune say 
That he should have no crown. • 

Somehow did cruel, dreadful wrong 

Get master of his sphere, 
And cause the old scarred patriot strong 

To harm his name so dear. 

That name so bright on battle roll 

In Independence time, 
Should been upon his country's scroll 

And freedom's spotless shrine. 

But fate with those whom gold deludes 

From purposes of right, 
Each one an Arnold, sore and nude 

Of honor, trust, and might. 



BENEDICT ARNOLD. 39 

And as his days were passing on 

In his old English home, 
He 'd oft recall that deed of wrong 

Which cannot be undone. 

He said : " Beneath your mighty folds 

I 've struck full many a blow, 
While cannons' thunder round me rolled 

And battle rage did flow. 

" Your gallant flag hath waved o'er me 
On Champjain's autumn shore, 
Ticonderoga, too, was free, 
When my old battery roared. 

'* That old blue coat which hangs up there 
Was pierced on Quebec's plain ; 
I had New England's arms in care, 
I led them o'er the slain. 

" There on the heights of Abraham 
I carried off a scar ; 
My carnage there for freedom ran 
In that most glorious war. 

" But as I sit and muse o'er deeds 
So valiant in the past. 
Deep sorrows make my bosom bleed, 
I live amid the blast. 

" May God my broken spirit know. 
May some enfathomed sigh 
Give mercy, for I'm not a foe, 
Though as a traitor die." 



40 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



NEW ENGLAND VOICES. 

"\ T 7" HEN ugly cannon shook the coast 

V V One hundred years ago, 
New England like a steel-clad host 
Met and defied the foe. 

The bugle note at Lexington, 

The Concord's battle din 
Made every man a Washington 

To rise against the king. 

That zeal which fired the yoeman heart 

Is moulded in the life 
Of every son, which sire imparts 

That blazed in olden strife. 

I cannot scan New England hills 

Wrapt with a pensive mood, 
But what those time-famed echoes fill 

My thankful breast as food. 

I cannot look on ocean's breast 

But what I see the fleet 
Which Louis sent, our grandest guest 

That ever crossed the deep. 

So good was this old royal lord 

That Nature almost speaks. 
While millions praise with one accord 

The value of his fleet. 



AMERICA. 



Yes, the mystic choir that sing 

Way down within the soul, 
Sometime their mingled accents ring 

Beyond our own control. 

And clouds with wavelets' distant chime, 
And voiceless gems that smile 

A language that is near divine, 
But sure to reconcile. 

Speak, ocean, from thy mouth so strong, 
Speak, hillsides, and speak, flowers. 

In one accord of praises long 
Be ever heard with ours. 



AMERICA. 

HOW proud should we feel of our country 
When we her broad fields do survey ; 
It yet must be lord of creation. 
Both land and the ocean to sway. 

There 's one little seed should be planted 
Within the great heart of our soul, 

'T is the love and respect for his country 
So brilliant with fathers of old. 

Go out on the fields where the battle 
Was fought for the land we hold dear, 



POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



We hear the old names of our fathers 
And think of their deeds with a tear. 

They chide us ; be faithful and ready 
To save the old ship as were they, 

For always a spirit is coming 
With musket and sabre to slay. 

Then let not the voice of our conscience 
Be dimmed by the voice of the foe ; 

But live for the good of the nation, 

The goodness our conscience must know. 



OUR REVOLUTIONARY DEAD. 

THE many thousands who have fought 
Upon our battle-fields of old. 
Whose action is with memories fraught, 
Whose memories of such actions wrought, 
A century past has never told. 

These sterling men of nation's worth 
Have died, and to the dust have gone ; 

Their battles gave their country birth 

And revolutionized the earth 

For brighter, clearer thoughts to dawn. 

These gallant soldiers, sons of Fate, 
Immortalized the world around. 



OUR REVOLUTIONARY DEAD. 43 



First fruitage of the thirteen states 
Conceived the thought almost too great 
That they a nation's base would found. 

But where to-day are known their graves ? 

Have thoughtless generations lost 
The resting spots of Freedom's braves 
Whose lives her heritage did save 

To them at long and fearful cost ? 

Are they in those old mossy mounds 
That lie on hillside and the dell, 

Unmarked, unknown, unsought, uncrowned ? 

O could we know ! How sweet the ground 
To cherish, to inscribe, and tell. 

Are they from Quebec's wintry plain. 
Abreast New England's rugged fields. 

To where perpetual- summer reigns ; 

For there the noble heroes slain 

Were thick to fall and none to yield. 

No mountain in the old thirteen, 

No river, stream, nor plain, nor wood. 
But what their muskets' flash have seen 
Or heard their bugles' distant scream. 
Or have some story of the good. 

They hung no sabre up to rust 
Until their victory was complete. 

To conquer, was the cry, and must 

Their flag unfurl or trail in dust 
Till every foe is neath their feet. 



44 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

Where shall we place them ? on what plane 
Shall we exalt their matchless deed ? 

What monument must bear their name ? 

What note must sound their lasting fame 
To span their glory, where 's the reed ? 

But if their graves have been forgot, 

Their names and deeds are left to praise. 

And to forget them we cannot ; 

Among our great, the proudest spot, 
Our loftiest thanks to them we raise. 



AN EVENING SCENE. 

A WHIP-POOR-WILL with flute of gold 
Winged o'er the starlit plain. 
And lighted on a moss-bound rock 
To sing his evening strain. 

The crescent moon was in the west. 

Her hue was on the sea, 
The fields beneath her shadows rest 

In deep sublimity. 

But where was man ? the question came — 

Distinct my senses heard ; 
The moon was laughing on the plain 

And joy was with the bird. 



A BLUEBIRD S/NG/ATG. 45 

But where was man ? had slumber's crook 

Led him to dreamland far, 
While here were dreams, of real look 

Of bird, of moon and star ? 

Who saw the bird besides myself ? 

The question may arise; 
There are birds enough for you and me, 

The moon is in the skies. 

But he who looks for downy bed. 

When Night asserts her reign. 
Cannot enjoy the little bird. 

Nor hear his pleasing strain. 



A BLUEBIRD SINGING, FEBRUARY 
17, 1894. 

The night previous femperature 7(ias at zero. 

THE morn was calm though cold the night, 
And all the fields were deep in white; 
The wintry chain was strong, 
The brook was bound in icy arms, 
And every spot had lost its charms 
And Nature had no song. 

When o'er the wastes of winter's cold 
A Utile bluebird's music rolled, 
Which gave the morning cheer. 



46 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

High on a stake with mantle blue 
His lordship sat with heart so true ; 
Called not the morning drear. 

I looked surprised to hear the song 
Warbling above the winter storm, 

In that huge hour of death, 
When every drop of vernal life 
Was chilled beneath the wintry strife, 

Of Arctic's awful breath. 

Undaunted yet his spring-like lay 
Poured out in notes so sweet and gay, 

As if his heart were glad, 
Until he made the fields of white 
Cheer with his thought that all is right, 

And why should earth be sad ? 

It was the tender note of praise 
That 's due the Lord in winter days, 

As much as in the spring; 
The wonders of his mighty will 
In ocean, storm, and voiceless hill 

Must make the bluebird sing. 



OCEAN'S SHORE. 

THOU mighty ocean on whose shore 
My life and labor have been spent, 
From boyhood's earliest scenes till now. 
The same blue bosom to the firmament, 
The same deep voices roar. 



LIBERTY BELL. 47 

Thou deep, with passions of such power, 
Subject to what men cannot stay, 
The storms augment, and then to wrath 
Thy boundless strength in all and every fray, 
xAdds conquests every hour. 

Upon thy sandy wave-beat verge. 
Upon thy rock-bound, rugged coast 
Have ages come and gone. And yet 
No metre of thy voice nor might been lost. 
Nor poet wrote thy dirge. 

These long, green banks are walls to stand 

The all-united strength of storm 

Of wind and wave cannot remove; 

For God so said and here his fingers formed 

My boyhood scene so grand. 

We say, great heaven, these banks designed 
To be the roaring ocean strand. 
The mountains burst, the clouds display. 
And all is great, but none with me so grand 
As these loud shores of mine. 



LIBERTY BELL EN ROUTE FOR THE 
ATLANTA EXPOSITION, 1895. 

'HOU grand old bell of destiny. 
Of record always great. 
Sweet relic of our liberties 

When they were born in state. 



T' 



48 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

This grand old bell of freedom, 
More dear than gems of gold, 

Spoke when we broke our thraldom 
With England's George so bold. 

Its chimes on Independence hour 
Went out upon the breeze, 

When fathers had defied the power 
Of rulers o'er the seas. 

And since that day of history 
Has Independence bell 

Been sacred as the victory 
Of which it rang to tell. 

Proud, grand old bell of liberty. 
Announced the nation's birth, 

The cradle for humanity 
For all the men of earth. 

It rang to tell the story 

Of patriotism's hour. 
We feel its truth and glory, 

And see its worth and power. . 

And as it strides the nation, 
Ten thousands come to cheer 

It, for their veneration, 
And grace it with a tear. 

Sweet gem of glorious history, 
Columbia's heirloom given. 



SCOTLAND'S IMMORTAL BARDS. 49 

By fathers grand in destiny 
Each one should be in heaven. 

And in the march of centuries 

Sweet bell ring out thy chimes, 
To fill mankind with memories 
Akin to what 's divine. 



SCOTLAND'S IMMORTAL BARDS. 

THE muses of the Scottish bards 
Have filled the world with worth, 
And for their humes we hold regard 

As songland of the earth ; 

It finds within our busy souls 

The sterling worth, if there, 

And patriotic thoughts will roll 

Of home and hero's care. 

On life's bleak wastes they stood alone 

And played their lyres with ease, 
Until no spot to them unknown, 

No nation but they please ; 
There 's not a dell, nor mountain-top. 

Nor river, lake, nor stream, 
No city, field, no castle, cot, 

But what is made serene. 

The flow of song has thrilled their land. 
The muse with feet of gold 



50 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

Has made that his immortal strand 

From centuries of old ; 
He's sung from off the mountain brow, 

The world has heard the voice, 
The glorious note from then till now 

Has been the patriot's choice. 

This song-rocked realm of Scotland, hail 

Thou mountain land of fame ! 
Ever yet bright in glory's mail 

And sweet in memory's name. 
Thou more enduring than thy hills, 

For deeds and names of them. 
Whose all sublime and heaven-born skill 

Made the writer's diadem. 



COLUMBIA IN THE COILS OF A LEVL 
AT HAN. 

WAY back in years of sixty-one 
When boyhood days were sweet, 
I well remember battle news, 
And slaughter of the union blues 
In victory and defeat. 

The theme of those immortal days, 

So dark with battle's storm. 
The story was on every hand, — 
How can the constitution stand 

With foes so great and strong ! 



COLUMBIA IN THE COILS. 



Then every union patriot soul 

Was anxious for its fate ; 
For 't was the words that voiced the free, 
The bed-rock of our liberty, 

A heaven-built helm of state. 

But deftly had Columbia stood 

Until the serpent's coils 
Were squeezing out her very life, 
And awful seemed to be the strife, 

And deep her struggling toils. 

The best from ofif New England's hills. 

The bravest from the West, 
Went out upon the fields to fight. 
To save her in the glorious right ; 

His brazen strength they cleft. 

It made the world's big bosom glad 

To strike the monster down ; 
For in the victory was life, 
A new birth given in the strife. 

An all enduring crown. 

The union strength crushed out his life 

And raised the goddess up; 
And long the nation shouted loud 
In praise of her for life more proud. 

From sorrow's dreadful cup. 



52 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



WASHINGTON IN 1750. 

A TALL proud boy of eighteen years 
Surveying near the Georgetown heights, 
Upon the very ground that yet 
The nation's Capitol should set, 
Named in his honor with his name, 
No romance can compare the same 
In all the world. 

Scarce forty years had passed away, 
When that tall boy of eighteen years 
Had fought the grandest victory given 
Beneath the tranquil skies of heaven ; 
His victory was a country new, 
His flag was our red, white, and blue 
On hills unfurled. 

His victory was all that 's great, 
All that was rich, that 's good and free, 
The old thirteen were made as one 
By this tall lad, George Washington. 
Then after all the war had past, 
Labor and trials yet as vast 
For him to plan. 

But when the siege of long debate 
Had raised without decision given. 
Then where the Capitol should stand 
Was left to his all-mastering hand. 



THE PATRIOTS OF ijjb. 53 

For safely could the state withhold 
And take his judgment, for 't was gold 
With every man. 

The fields of war, nor men's applause 
Had dimmed with him those scenes of old ; 
Those high hills of Potomac yet 
Were firmly on his vision set; 
And should he mark and bound once more 
For they were sweet as days of yore. 
All to admire. 

And there this old man gray with war, 
Loved charms he saw when but eighteen, 
And hence the Capitol now stands 
Upon the very hills and land 
He loved so in his manhood's prime ; 
The spot ideal and sublime 
Was his desire. 



THE PATRIOTS OF 1776. 

GOD loves the souls of valiant men 
Whose valor stands for brother's right ; 
They 're but the powers which voice his will, 
His instruments the place to fill, 
His every purpose to unite. 



54 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

One great example of this truth 
Was in our Independence time, 
When our young nation's life began 
To build upon the present plan 
Which is a part to us divine. 

Men in the council seats were true, 
Men on the field as firm as they, 
A loved unwritten patriot law 
Pervaded council and the war 
Till victory won the glorious day. 

Those fifty-six staunch men of old. 
Who raised their hands to vote us free. 
Deserve the highest note of praise 
That freedom's happy millions raise 
In bringing out our Lord's decree. 

Men on the field in humbler rank. 

Who fought and fell for that great cause. 

Or bore a musket for defense, 

Are just as great in every sense 

As they who formulated laws. 

Around that camp of sweet renown 
Which guarded our immortal birth. 
They sit united as of old, 
But in a realm of joy untold. 
Rewarded for their toil of earth. 

Around that camp sits one we love 
Whose name we cherish and revere ; 



UUR SHIP OF STATE. 55 

But all a different task performed, 
And every soul the camp adorns, 
And every heart is just as dear. 

We see the illustrious fathers sit 
In tattered robes of shining gold, 
While sweeter notes than battle drums 
Which bade them once to carnage come, 
Fill all the realm with strains untold. 

A great reward for valor given, 

A sphere where agonies no more 

Shall harm the peace of them who fought, 

And by their deeds the world is taught 

A lesson of Columbia's shore. 



OUR SHIP OF STATE. 

HOW proudly looms our ship of state 
In every patriot's eye. 
Its destiny to him so great 
That he will for it die. 

He sees it loom upon the sea. 

Its prow is made of gold, 
Its keel was laid by heaven's decree. 

Its helm our goddess holds. 

Its canvas is a sparkling robe 
With emeralds set so fair. 



56 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

Its course is westward round the globe 
Beneath diviner care. 

There are eighty millions on_her bows, 

Shouting with one accord, 
While glory wreathes the helmsman's brows 

And hails her captain lord. 

The pilots fear the sunken reefs, 

Yet reefs of danger past ; 
They watch, but trusting to their chief 

If they are on them cast. 

No leeward land now breaks the view, 

No shoals to foam the wave, 
But one majestic spanless blue 

Rolls round the mighty brave. 

The stars whose lustre o'er them vents 

Are those immortal souls 
Crystalled amid the firmaments. 

Their union to control. 

No storms that shade the sky serene 

Can dim one glorious star. 
Its beauty through the tempest beams 

And fills the world afar. 

And as our great immortal names 

Ascend trom earth, they shine 
To guide this ship through Time's deep main, 

Till anchor cast for time. 



OAK TREE PLANTED. 57 



OAK TREE PLANTED ON THE TWO 
HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY OF KING 
PHILIP'S DEATH AT MOUNT HOPE, 
AUGUST 24, 1876. 

WE plant to-day a tree, 
The infant of the wood. 
To mark where Philip's throne 
In far back days had stood. 

Two hundred years have past 
Since that young savage lord 

Asserted for his rights, 
And led his aims abroad. 

Until New England's heart 

Was thrilled with deep concern, 

For Philip's knife was red. 
His heart was just as stern. 

All this broad realm was his, 
The hills so green with wood. 

The vales so rich with grass ; 
Himself a monarch stood. 

The inborn grace of man 

He, may be, never knew. 
His nature fierce and wild, 

His thoughts of mercy few. 

Not for his savage heart 

Was this sweet memory given. 



58 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

Not for his all intent 

For which our land had striven. 

But as an emblem, we 

The oak tree plant to him, 

It is the forest's pride. 
Of forests it is king. 

As emblem of his strength. 
Child of the wild wood he, 

Who loved to battle storms, 
Innured to gallantry. 

Then may the sun and showers 
Nourish this tree until 

Its strong extending arms 
Shall shade the royal hill. 

His birthright yet may see 
His grand domain, and know 

That this is Philip's tree. 
The mightiest English foe. 

From this historic mound 
His royal father left, 

To greet our pilgrim sire 
On Plymouth's rock bereft. 

But Philip's heart was hard. 
His father's love not there. 

The passion of his soul 

Was rapine, blood, despair. 



TASH-TASH-UCK AND HIS COUNTRY. 59 

But grow this youthful tree, 

Fit emblem be this oak, 
Until its branches grace, 

The summit of Mount Hope. 



TASH-TASH-UCK AND HIS COUNTRY. 

IN memory of this ancient chief 
The muse will dedicate his song, 
For in his heart there is belief 

That this illustrious ruler long 
Held regal sway of our domain. 
And thousands 'neath his mighty reign 
Lived conquerors in his hour. 

In his proud years he trod the hills 

And fished the streams, a source of wealth. 

And in the grove the panther killed 

And speared the treacherous wolf in stealth. 

Peace filled his slumbers where he slept 

And foes from his loved realm were kept 
By his brave legion's power. 

Ah, could he known a century more 
Would sweep his royal blood away 

And other men invest his shore 
And all his glory in decay, 

Could brave Tash-tash-uck known the fate. 

So grimly in the future wait 
For his proud race and throne. 



6o POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

But when our sires his valleys prest 
They saw a charm of beauty there, 

For Nature many a way had blest 
With scenery that is grand and rare. 

Soon o'er his fields new homes were spread 

And feet of other nations tread 
On ashes of his own. 

Could he have seen the commerce borne 
From the wild wastes of ocean's might, 

And valleys filled and mountains torn. 
The iron steeds to move in flight, 

Would all this woke his savage breast 

Enough to ask what powers they vest 
To do such wondrous thing. 

But where is he that once was strong 
And mighty in that day of old ? 

Is there no relic but a song, 
No deed nor legend to unfold 

One rift of his long, ancient reign ? 

All lost but his undying name — 
So oft the fate of kings. 



JOHN BROWN. 

OLD good John Brown and his four sons 
Began the conquest for the slave. 
And gloriously they did appear 
Upon our Western new frontier. 
The nurseling empire state to save. 



JOHN brown: 6 1 

For slavery's wicked van had set 

Westward to spread its withering blight, 

But these most gallant sons said no, 

And with a firm, uplifted blow. 

They struck for God, freedom, and right. 

The warm, rich life blood of their sire 

Was bounding through the sons the same, 

Deep in each bosom was the zeal. 

And for humanity that weal 

Which lit the country's soul aflame. 

They heard that still small voice and knew 
Their arduous task for him was long, 

The millions were against their plan, 

A nation, too, was on the van, 

With slavery's minions leading on. 

They saw the murky clouds of war. 
And heard the roar of battle-fields. 

And knew they must fall in the fray ; 

But when the storm should pass away, 
Their cause, like mountains, never yield. 

The clouds did burst, the storm did sweep. 
The barbarous chains of slavery fell, 

But who has sung their primal deeds. 

First martyrs in the cause to bleed. 
What shaft their heroisms tell ? 

What sons of broad Columbian's realm 
Have done more for our name so sweet 



62 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

Than John Brown and his boys so brave, 
Whose hope and life were with the slave, 
Though God their labor made complete ? 

Must centuries pass before the doubt 

As to their all eventful day. 
To be rewarded and revered 
Between both oceans, and endeared 

As first in that immortal fray ? 



GEN. JOHN C. FREMONT. 

FREEDOM'S great banner-bearer dead, 
A Caesar for her shackled race. 
And first the nation's forces led, 
As chief before the glorious chase. 

His campaign march with flag unfurled. 
In heart true as the Northern star. 

With cause that shook the Christian woild, 
The cause the grandest for a war. 

Heroes may fall on fields more red. 
But never o'er the battle strife 

Has man rejoiced, or nobler bled. 
For right, humanity, and life. 

For when he raised that sword on high. 
His heart for servile man was true. 

And victory with a wreath stood nigh, 
To grace the fallen and the few. 



GEN. JOHN C. FREMONT. 63 



That purpose which his bosom filled, 

Rushed out, like mountain torrent, warm, 

For slavery wickedness had chilled 

All thought of legal hands more strong. 

But while his cap waved on the van, 
Secession's flag fell 'neath his feet, 

And thraldom's dastard giants scanned 
His onward move with sorrows deep. 

Yes, while his sword flashed by his side, 
Beyond the Mississippi's banks, 

New England loved his battle strides, 
And loved to fill his veteran ranks. 

Few nobler names are gathered 'round 
The sainted shrine of freedom great, 

A thousand more may get the crown, 
While yet the truth is with his fate. 

Few dearer names than Fremont's live, 
Twofold in greatness long to stand ; 

His youthful heart of valor gives 

The mountain pass to Western strands. 

His country's flag he first unfurled 
Upon Nevada's snow-capped hills, 

And gave unto his land a world 

Where states, like empires, rise to fill. 

His battle horn and sabre's gleam, 

Crossed mountains robed in winter's cold. 



64 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

While in his rear comes up the stream 
Of restless men in quest of gold. 

And while his eagle ensign waved, 
Our country loved to follow on, 

For in his tracks there was no grave. 
But victory and greatness won. 

Long will the name of Fremont live, 

Long will New England's patriot breast 

Rejoice to honor and to give 
Due reverence to a hero's rest. 



NOT SHOOT THE EAGLE. 

NOT shoot the eagle, sportsman, stop ! 
He 's national and great ; 
Have you his glory once forgot, 
Since he was born of state ? 

Now halt, and let your better will 

Be master for the time. 
And do not that old eagle kill 

Whose memories are sublime. 

For when our nation's day began. 

One hundred years ago. 
Our fathers in their mighty plan 

Decreed things thus and so. 



NOT SHOOT THE EAGLE. 65 

Among the many mandates wrought, 

One was to have a shield, 
As emblem of the nation's thought, 

Some badge for state and field. 

What object was more fitting, then, 

In those wild stormy days, 
To be an emblem for those men 

So worthy of our praise. 

Than the majestic eagle grand, 

Free as the clouds on high, 
Whose wing the starless realm commands. 

Like thought he climbs the sky. 

This eagle bird, yes, he should be 

Our coat of arms and shield ; 
His portrait symbol of the free, 

In hall of state and field. 

The mountain's child, heir to the land 

W'hich rises to the cloud. 
He lives beyond the storm more grand 

On snow-clad crags more proud. 

Do n't shoot the eagle ! let him soar ! 

He 's motto for our liberty. 
Freedom-loved bird forevermore, 

Proud symbol of our victory. 



66 POEMS OF iXEW ENGLAND. 

OUR CONSTITUTION. 

HOW staunch our Constitution stands 
Before the world's admiring gaze, 
Its base the continent commands, 
And to the starry cloudlands raise. 

How careless is the common mind 
Its build and majesty to know, 

The strength and glory of mankind 
Are in the work and purpose, too. 

It makes the citizen feel great. 

It equalizes every man, 
It stands the proudest wall of state, 

The grandest gift in mortal plan. 

When storms of battle on it beat 
And awful was the day of strife, 

It stood as firm, unharmed, complete, 
Nor lost a grace of early life. 

But brilliantly in that red hour 

It shone celestial, pure, and bright. 

And freedom set her cherished flower 
Beneath its rosy walls of might. 

Beside its battlements now shine 

The gem her bleeding hands had set, 

A sweet memento all divine. 

Last block of gold with battle wet. 



WASHINGTON-. 67 



Look to the skies! hail, walls of light! 

The stars shine o'er its summit high, 
Its crown forever grows more bright, 

Its base still on the bed-rock lies. 

Boon of the world ! Vast column stand, 
Proud bulwark of Columbia's free, 

Strength of the mountains, and as grand 
From earth to heaven, from sea to sea. 

Boon of the world, of limit grand. 
Forged in the battle-furnace blast 

And built by faithful fathers' hands, 
That should a million centuries last. 



WASHINGTON. 

HAS time through all the centuries great 
And all the change that empire's seen. 
Failed to produce in war and state 
A man so brave, so wise, supreme ? 

Have nations fought enough and bled 
To raise one soul of God-built mind. 

Whose feet would not his victories tread, 
But ever leave them for mankind .' 

Have kings robbed glory of her man 

Until this mighty age of earth 
Must God raise up to show his plan 

For nations to grow strong with worth .' 



68 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

Did grandeur store her noblest deeds 
That proud Columbians might achieve ? 

All earth has said that heaven decreed, 
And all this glorious truth believe. 

Did wisdom, in his house of gold. 
Keep these immortal truths so great. 

Until our Washington of old 

Was asked to bring them into state ? 

He went with purpose strong and grand 
To bear them in from storms of strife, 

And did triumphantly command, 
Tho' cost his shore its patriot life. 

He bravely through war's thunder bore 
The germs that make his country free, 

The glory of Columbia's shore 
Was ransomed in his victory. 

This all-important patriot deed 

To our great Washington was given, 

A duty by his land decreed, 

A mandate surely born in heaven. 

Did God reserve this Continent 

As theatre for men to raise 
A free ideal government. 

Where freedom, justice, truth be praised ? 

He stood on our foundations new, 

With sword drenched in the battle gore, 



AMERICA'S FIRST BATTLE. 69 

And asked high heaven, with bosom true, 
To smile upon it ev^ermore. 

He saw behind how empires fell. 

And of the past the future told : 
He tells us in his last "Farewell," 

A gift the nation's bosom holds. 

The world has known his glorious worth. 

No note can lift him higher on, 
No rival ever had of earth, 

None built so grand as Washington. 

And may the country ever be 

An emblem of his soul's desire, 
True, patriotic, grand, and free, 

A land that will the world admire. 



AMERICA'S FIRST BATTLE AT LEXING- 
TON. 

THE midnight stretched the Bay State hills, 
And every star was shining bright ; 
Slumber a thousand homes did fill. 
And who was dreaming of the fight ? 

But ere the night had passed away 
They heard the shout of Paul Revere, 

Whose mission was to rouse for fray 
The sleeping thousands far and near. 



70 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

For England's mighty men of strife 

Were roaming fast through hill and glen, 

Robbing the country of its life, 

And trampling o'er the rights of men. 

But long before the skies were red 

A thousand farmers, strong and brave, 

Began a thousand paths to tread, 

Their wealth, their homes, their lives to save. 

This was America's first van, 

America's first battle call, 
America's first march, first plan. 

First soldiers for her rights to fall. 

They met the foe at Lexington, 

At Concord, too, they fought and fell, 

With every blow they struck they won, 
Each step they took the world doth tell. 

They hurled them o'er the Charlestown heights, 

And made it one immortal day, 
For Liberty to tell and write 

About the heroes in that fray. 



DANIEL BOONE. 

HOW pleasant 't is to tell and praise 
Our men of past for gallant deeds, 
Men who lived in ye olden days, 
Whose wit and valor did succeed. 



DANIEL BOONE. 



It is no deep, inherent power, 

To tell the truth as oft one speaks, 

No virtue to extol the hour 

Of him who honor justly reaps. 

So do not forget these bright names. 
Whose bravery led the Western van, 

They've fought like those on battle plain, 
They've achieved much to fill the plan. 

What man have we to honor more 

Than Daniel Boone ? The nation owes 

That man a debt ; let all ignore 

The selfish ways, and something show. 

\\'e do not care to praise his deed 
So much as to admire the life. 

The soul, the nerve, from whence proceeds 
Such length of peril and of strife. 

The dangers, hardships, and the years 
This man had passed in woods so deep. 

Make him our bannered pioneer. 
The subject for a world to greet. 

While men of brave Columbia's realm 
Were waging Independence War, 

With sterling grasp they had the helm, 
With strength they hurled the foe afar. 

Meanwhile was Boone on wild frontiers. 
With firebrand and with gun in hand. 

And, like the soldiers, lost to fear, 
But served his country just as grand. 



72 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

He hewed from Western wood a state, 
He gave his flag another star, 

The old Kentuckian realm so great, 

First born since young Columbia's war. 

What man has nobler fought than Boone ! 

How bright in history lives his name ! 
It shines in Fame's deep skies at noon, 

A country's pride from main to main. 

No gift of state, no price in gold, 

Could lure him from the primal wood. 

His nature, long innured and bold. 

With grace each hardship had withstood. 

When others sought his home and fields. 
He 'd build his stockade miles away. 

And there, when nature's stillness yields. 
His soul's deep instincts would obey. 

Until De Soto's long, deep wave 

Was crossed for darker fields to roam, 

A life of fourscore years, yet brave. 
He found in solitude a home. 

He loved to rove the wild, remote, 

Untraversed realms, where mortal feet 

Had never trod, nor stirred the note 
Within the silent wood so deep. 

The wolf's grim howl in midnight's hour 
Was but a bugle call for him ; 



DISCOVERING THE HIGHE4IVDS. 73 

His rifle, guardian of the bower. 
His presence safer than a king. 

Boone's bravery faced the savage knife, 
The arrow, tomahawk, and spear. 

He chanced a thousand times his life, 
With wolf, with panther, and with bear. 

Such heroism makes his days 

A marvel in his nation's pride. 
This brave old pioneer, a praise, 

A household name his country wide. 



HUDSON DISCOVERING THE HIGH- 
LANDS. 

WHEN Hudson sailed this narrow sea 
To find what wealth it did possess. 
He found wild nature's majesty 
Unbroken in its happiness. 

Those cliffs which rise in grandeur high, 
No other shores so tall and grand, 

In clouds their snowy summits lie, 
In firmaments their voiceless hands. 

He looked with awe on the serene 
Huge workmanship of nature's build, 

His soul must been lost in the scene. 
His heart with giant greatness thrilled. 



74 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

The dark blue waves so deep and strong, 
Flowing from the unseen, unknown, 

From whence they come, what shores unborn. 
What realm, what sources might they own ? 

A thousand visions fill his gaze, 

All moulded in gigantic form, 
A thousand thoughts to lift in praise 

For boastful nature deeds so strong. 

Still the deep wave with mountain shores 
Kept yielding sceneries all sublime. 

The royal eagle lordly sogired 

And hailed the clouds, his native shrine. 

Since those young days what glorious fate 
Hath come upon her shores and hills ! 

The new world 's built her cities great, 
Her shores the seas with commerce fill. 

Since that grand sail that Hudson made. 
What splendid change in empire seen ! 

A people hath a nation laid 

And brought their fleets upon his stream. 

Upon her shores the continent 

Brings down its treasures for the earth. 

Great waves, what service have they lent 
Unto the world since their short birth? 



IMMORTAL VIRGINIANS. 75 



IMMORTAL VIRGINIANS. 

THOSE old Virginians wrought such mighty 
deeds, 
That patriot bosoms never can forget 

When our young country for her rights did bleed, 
They both in war and state for victory met. 

It gives the true heart pride to trace the page 
And see the names so glorious in renown ; 

We find them first the battle strength to wage, 
We find them first with statesmen glory crowned. 

We find her Henry blazing with that fire 

In halls of state, that thrilled the country 
through ; 

We find her Washington with one desire 
To stand for right or die a martyr true. 

Her Jefferson with ermine robes of peace 
Stands like a giant with deep counsel sweet, 

Flowing to man and man to man increase 

His words and thoughts until a nation greets. 

Her Madison and her Monroe and Lee, 
All wise and brave in those historic days, 

Toiling that their young country might be free, 
And may we long her patriot children praise. 

The nation, yes, may take them in her arms 
And ask all ages still to judge their worth. 



76 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

To that sad era when those great alarms 

Hung round the cradle of the nation's birth. 

Yes, take but three, one fired the land with hope, 
Another gave the reasons why they fought, 

The third arrayed and with the battles cope 

And victory for the struggling millions brought. 

Of course we do not mean to slight the name 
Of him that first upon the country page, 

But simply give to old Virginia's fame 

Her first great actors of that glorious age. 



THE MIND OF MAN. 

THE mind of man I symbolize. 
As monuments of stone. 
With summits mid the clear blue skies, 
Unguarded, grand, alone. 

Some stand upon the solid rock, 
With base so broad and grand, 

That storms give strength instead of shock. 
And age withholds its hand. 

While others stand on sandy base, 

And fall before the years 
Of life have run their usual race ; 

With some no mind appears. 



ABRAHAM L/XCOLX. 77 

And some stand on a rock unmoved 

With fertile soil around, 
Bearing sweet herbs of heaven approved, 

And with new glories crowned. 

Some stand with flowers twining round 

This shaft of heaven's design, 
Unfolding gems, the rarest found, 

Of workmanship divine. 

Yes, bless the Lord, he gives the mind. 

He plants the gems to grow. 
He 's authorship of all mankind, 

He 's God above, below. 

If one with rugged mind be graced. 

And towers with flowers above, 
Look not contemptuous o'er thy race. 

But know that God is love. 

And listen to that still small voice 

That speaks unto the soul, 
For 'twas that power that made the choice 

And made the mind unfold. 



ABRAHAM LLXCOLN. 

GOD in his all-wise vision saw, 
Plain as we see the sun's broad glow. 
That America must have war, 
For she had nurtured up a foe ; 



78 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

And hence a man to guide the hour 

Must be the next sublime decree, 
Whose every instinct feels the power 

And knows the voices of the free, 
The build, the glory of his state. 
The steps to take, the pathway, and its fate. 

And when the dark, deep clouds had spread 

And half the universe began 
To shake beneath the battle tread. 

The nation leaned upon her man. 
Who had come forth as from the night ; 

Yet strong and mighty for the day, 
With word and hands to do the right 

Let others purpose as they may ; 
For to his soul a voice sublime 
Had spoke ; he knew the course of God's design. 

Prodigious spirit of the age 

Came forth to give his hallowed light, 
Illume the world-great freedom's sage, 

The praise of nations to unite. 
Great father, of two spheres adored. 

The earth and all the realm divine, 
Whose power a severed land restored, 

Whose grave is liberty's first shrine. 
All hail, till patriot fires shall cease. 
Our martyred loveliness, our son of peace. 

First for his country's sake he stood. 

Whose fate the zealous world looked on, 



BEAUTIFUL DAYS. 79 

And trusted to his sense of good ; 

Whose virtues were of lordly form, 
His reasoning powers were stronger far 

Than other minds before his day ; 
He measured with a span the war 

And set the bounds it should obey. 
The Union blood should ransom more 
Than all its pains, the miseries, and the gore. 

These traits of character so grand 

Which shone from him in days so great, 
The extra threads of gold to stand 

The awful test of war and state ; 
Had Lincoln's soul been void of these 

Royal attributes which heaven gave, 
We turn in terror, for the seas 

Of deep rebellion would enslave, 
And he with this republic great 
Would both been buried to an awful fate. 



BEAUTIFUL DAYS.. 

WHEN spring unfolds her balmy wing 
And soars across the hills of brown. 
Her many million voices sing, 

The many million hopes will crown. 

How pleasantly her days pass by, 
All nature seems to smile and wait, 



POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



While she prepares the earth and sky, 
Her precious seeds to germinate. 

Her breath is on the morning breeze, 
Her love the noontide skies reveal, 

The ocean breakers fall with ease, 
And evening clouds her beauty steal. 

How pleasantly is life's sweet day 

With health and youth strewn round so dear, 
Will spring look hopeful when decay 

Will mark the coming threescore year ? 

But may each life pass down the stream 
Unburdened with transgression's thought, 

But with a conscience pure, serene, 

Of good deeds and of good words fraught. 

May spring look beautiful with age 

When tottering steps some day will come ; 

May some sweet theme the mind engage, 
May some sweet flowers the pathway bloom. 

Spring, the fair maid of all the year. 

Will ever come with rosy lips 
To kiss the bare, cold hills so drear 

And trees with purple buds to tip. 

Spring, the sweet daughter with her seed, 
Will come and go when I am gone, 

But may great God my spirit lead 

Where peace and flowers shall ever dawn. 



A SUMMER HOUR. 



A SUMxMER HOUR. 

GREAT the joy there is in silence 
When the mind is free, 
For then we here with nature talk, 
And all seems in glee. 

Especially when summer breezes 

Waft the teeming earth, 
And all landscapes seem to flourish 

In nature's glad birth. 

Every fly is but a minstrel 

As it soars along; 
Every bird and every cricket 

Keeps continual song. 

In the chimney now the swallows 

Chirrup and seem gay, 
While I muse in shades so peaceful 

All the summer day. 

Over all the mighty locust 
Sounds his deafening strain 

From the tree top in the forest 
To the far-ofi: plain. 

Yes, there is a tranquil beauty 

On the silent hearth, 
Ancients knew it when they told it. 

And thev knew its worth. 



POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



For among the varied music, 

We can gently pause 
On the glorious works of nature 

And her sacred laws. 

While I think of him that formed them, 

How could I destroy 
One sweet life so full of pleasure 

For what some call joy ? 

For each varied song so gently 

Seems to fill my soul, 
While this little band of music 

Heaven alone controls. 

Who should dare now crush a minstrel 

On the sod or limb ; 
I should notice, and besides 

Be observed by him. 



MASSASOIT. 

PROUD monarch of a thousand hills. 
Thy name is yet revered and grand. 
For those remindful deeds that filled 
That seaworn suffering pilgrim band. 

For those humane and Christian thoughts 
That thrilled thy breast for other weal, 



WASHINGTON AT PRAYER. 83 

A million hearts with homage frought 
Still for thy memory ever feel. 

For in thy heart an instinct dwelt 
That made thy savage life a flower ; 

Thy deeds an infant nation felt, 

So timely wrought in sorrow's hour. 

Ah, yes, thy memory is the rose 

That's in the garland which surrounds 

The brow of thousands that repose 
In honor on New England grounds. 



WASHINGTON AT PRAYER. 

HOW glorious must have been the sight 
Of Washington at prayer, 
Who had the nation's cause to light 
At heart, the nation's care. 

'T was when he lay at ^'alley Forge, 

Packed by the winter storms, 
While the strong army of King George 

Was in the city warm. 

Disease and death were stalking round 

The patriot ranks in grief. 
Our ship of state almost aground 

The shoals, the rocks, the reef. 



84 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

Great Washington he knew that God 

Was in his cause so great, 
He languished for his smiling rod 

In some way demonstrate. 

He sought the frozen wood to pray 

Great God to help and haste, 
For young America's short day 

Was sorrowing into waste. 

They heard him pray, his lifted voice 

Made vocal hill and wood ; 
They knew their cause would be God's choice. 

For he is with the good. 

Columbia, sweet with girlish grace, 

Was in the storm-beat bower, 
And Liberty with tearful pace 

Was near him at the hour. 

They looked, they saw his bended knee. 

His brow was cold and bare. 
They only whisper : '* Yes, it 's he. 

Our Washington at prayer." 

Low by his side his sabre hung. 

His hat laid on the snow. 
As his great heart with trouble wrung 

Poured out his country's woe. 

They wiped their soul's warm tear away, 
Their sob was low and deep. 



LINCOLN AT GETTYSBURG. 85 

Jehovah heard " the Father " pray, 
He saw the moistened cheek. 

He answered prayer, we heard : Amen. 

The wood, the camp, the world 
Rejoiced to see the cause again 

And victory's Hag unfurl. 



LINCOLN AT GETTYSBURG. 

AN old gray soldier said he saw 
Lincoln at Gettysburg. 
Three days that awful strife had raged, 
Three days the Union arms had waged 
The nation deep was stirred. 

The Union arms were making then 

Full twice five thousand graves. 
For Lee had gone and left his slain. 
The Nation's dead was on the plain 
But Union banners wave. 

Lincoln had come, the president ! 

The field was thrilled anew ; 
The bugle called the men in line ; 
A hundred thousand bayonets shine. 

Held all in hands so true. 



86 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

The soldier said : His hat was soft 

And illy graced his head; 
A dark frock coat; and very tall, 
A head and better o'er them all, 

With broad, strong shoulders spread. 

They saw him walk ; they heard him speak 
Those words of wisdom rare. 

The conquest was his fatal stroke ; 

The blow was given, and it broke 
The arm the nation dare. 

The Southern structure felt the day — 

It settled with the strain; 
The base, the piers, the pillars shook ; 
The architectural bore a look 

That it must fall in twain. 

The soldier said : His wearied breast 

Was with emotion deep ; 
For they beheld him as their king — 
Their leader and their chief — who 'd bring 

Them through the war complete. 

Lincoln at Gettysburg was gold ; 

'T was glory and 't was great. 
The world knew that he fought the strife, 
And knew he was the nation's life. 

Holding its shivering fate. 

It was on Independence day. 
The nation had met there. 



INDIAN ROYAL BURYING GROUND. 87 

And all the Union and the earth 
Knew 't was the second of its birth, 
With purer life to share. 

Lincoln at Gettysburg ! How wise 

To meet his soldiers brave ! 
Fearless he met them on the plain, 
Among the wounded and the slain. 

And by the new-made grave. 



INDIAN ROYAL BURYING GROUND, 
CHARLESTOWN, R. L 

I STAND among the royal graves 
Of Narragansett's kings of yore, 
Whose age was mighty and as brave 
As those that rule to-day their shore. 

But time, so certain and so strong, 

Hath laid their crowns and sceptres low. 

And all their victories but a song. 
Their life a wild flower long ago. 

These lines of graves so crude and old 

Bring to the memory what must have been 

This hill with thousands young and bold ; 
These scenes all massed with savage men. 

Rude honors of their Indian life. 
As din of missiles, scream of horns, 



POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



Then rang these vales like battle strife 
In those remote vast years now gone. 

The cortege resting at the hill, 

The bearers of their king's remains, 

The spears, the plumes, the forest fills, 
The ranks, the crush, the burial strain. 

All those wild anthems of the past, 
The primal wood that filled the vale 

Has gone forever, and the vast 
Eternity will only tell the tale. 

All swept away except the scene 

Where rocks and hillside voiceless stand. 

And the blue ocean all supreme. 

Whose white-lipped waves yet beat the sand. 

But nations mightier than their own 

Have sunk beneath the freight of years. 

And brighter crowns and grander thrones 
And sceptres, too, whom earth did fear. 

Faith hath not only grasped the names 
Of these wild lords of glory past — 

Not only lost their ancient reign. 

But with the world hath dealt as vast. 

The life of flowers, of grass, and tree 

Owes its existence to the dust 
"Of some sweet life" long ceased to be, 

Some age that felt as yet we must. 



A GULL ON BLACK ROCK. 



But grateful to their memory still 

And what time's hand doth yet reveal, 

We '11 cherish and we '11 guard the hill, 
We '11 scribe, preserve, and ever feel. 



A GULL ON BLACK ROCK, ROCKY 
POINT, SOUTH KINGSTOWN. 

THE wind across the grassy banks 
Was blowing brisk and keen, 
While many a gull, with gleeful pranks, 
Seem joyous to be seen. 

They'd rise, they'd dive, they'd skim the wave, 

So boistrous and so grand ; 
They 'd perch upon the rock, then brave 

Along the beaten sands. 

But one would on the black rock set, 
As waves rolled 'round him deep ; 

The spray would make his bosom wet 
And wash his purple feet. 

The billows, as they swept along 

And 'round the boulder dark. 
Did thunder in a voice so strong 

That made one give a start. 

But firmly stood the gull, nor winced 
Nor left the foam-clad rock, 



go POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

For his whole spirit seemed convinced 
It was a happy spot, — 

A place where his wild nature sought, 
Innured from birth till now. 

By a true instinct ever taught 
Not to the seas to bow. 



SPRINGTIME MEMORIES. 

THE sweetly singing jay in blue 
Has brought the spring once more, 
While hallowed memories come to view 

As wave-beats on the shore. 
Could we withstay the memories bright,. 
Could we eclipse them in a night, 
Where not a future rift could light. 
How dark would lifetime be. 

My mother's bird. I should forget 

When it came full of glee ; 
It always perched to sing, and sit 

Upon the mulberry tree. 
And there unto the evening still 
Its sweet notes would the branches fill. 
At morn the little bird would thrill 

The dooryard with his glee. 



EACH MIND A WORLD. 91 

Could I forget my boyhood days, 

My mother's joy and mine, 
What could I have to love and praise 

Or think of good old times? 
For when the evening hour grew late 
My mother stood beside the gate. 
Perhaps an hour she 'd watch and wait, 

And ask what made me stay. 

Her robin then had gone to sleep, 

But whip-poor-wills would sing. 
Or else the little frogs would peep 

Beside the brook and spring. 
How sweet those memories ; yes, how sweet t 
I feel them, and I hear the feet 
Of those delightful days, so fleet. 

Tread softly, but away. 



EACH MIND A WORLD. 

IT seems to me this mind of ours 
Might well unto a world compare, 
For in and round it live such powers. 
Such awful destinies, such care. 

It 's also true each mind is wrought 
Of something different, and arranged 

On different plans, for every thought 

Seems firm as stars that shine unchanged. 



POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



We think we are right, and try to tell 
Those we think wrong the way to right, 

But cannot change ; the more we dwell, 
The further off they get from sight. 

We know it 's so. Each mind seems based 
On something which God knows is true. 

All trees stand firm within their place, 
Each tree 's a tree, tho' different grew. 

It's so with us ; we are right because 
There is a cause each must defend. 

And justice will regard the laws 
Of nature till the very end. 

A tree cannot say to a tree. 

You are wrong, because you are big or small ; 
You should grow crooked, fair like me. 

Or be as that one, straight and tall. 

We should not say unto a man. 

You are wrong because you are not like me. 
Why should we try to shift a plan 

Of which a God has so decreed. 

The mind seems, more and more to me. 

Like some born sphere for thoughts, like stars 

Of different hues, — so fair to see, 
So brilliant, and to us so far ! 

Eixed are these firmaments; they shine 
To brighten all the worlds around, 



HAWAII. 93 



Each star a jewel built for time, 
Each star eternity to crown. 

Though some may be more drear and dark, 
Yet God has purpose for their life ; 

He 's all supreme, his grander heart 
Will triumph and make clear the strife. 

He made all men, he made the world, 
He made us like Himself, as should. 

Then on our thoughts pure sky unfurled, 
The likeness of his world so good. 

Then all should cease to try to sail 

Each other's ship through life's deep sea ; 

For God is steering, and the gale 
Is also part of his decree. 

We may plant flowers for others' good. 
We may bear burdens for their weal, 

But what good things we do, we should 

Know they're from God, not from Him steal. 



HAWAII. 

LITTLE tropic brave Hawaii, 
Struggling in the Western main. 
Raising from her pagan starlight 
To the morn of Christian reign. 



94 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

Wanting to become a sister 
To Columbia, Empire state, 

Whose maternal hands have aided 
In her recent strides so great. 

Shaking ofif the royal fetters. 
Forged by wild barbaric hands, 

To adorn with rose and laurel 
Emblems of a mightier land. 

Orphaned mid the deep seas' thunder. 
Shall we make her one more star 

On the flag of this great Union, 
Mighty both in peace and war ? 

Raise once more that starry ensign 
On those fearless, sea-girt hills. 

For the soul of earth and heaven 
Knows it 's God's eternal will. 

Proud is every loving patriot, 
Proud is Liberty to know 

That her influence bounds no ocean 
But must with her people go. 

Deep down in the heart of freemen, 

In the patriotic soul. 
Voices raise that can 't be trodden. 

Powerful as the ocean roll. 

In the sunny, broad Pacific 

She must rise with laureled head 



WASHINGTON AND THE CONSTITUTION. 95 

And her crown of pearl and sea shells 
Must be freedom's wreath instead. 

Isles of little sweet Hawaii, 
Emerald set in Western wave, 

Gemland like our own New England, 
Land of valiant men to save. 

Injured beauty of the West seas, 

In the great day yet to come 
We will smooth those tear-wet ringlets, 

We will greet our sister home. 



WASHINGTON AND THE CONSTITUTION. 

AFTER the battle guns had ceased 
Of that illustrious patriot age, 
And men came to love the peace 

For which they long had been engaged. 

The happy millions then demand 

A constitution for the free, 
And who must fill the conclave good. 

And who must voice their liberty. 

The weight of battle had been borne. 
The musket and the sword laid down. 

The nation's flag, bloody and torn, 
A priceless nation as a crown. 



96 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

Their country's eye was yet upon 
The chief who led the stormy scene, 

The mighty, grand George Washington, 
Most noble of the age supreme. 

Again he must assume the lead 
In this momentous hour so great. 

For who should know the country's need, 
Or better build the walls of state. 

He 'd heard the land proclaim the cause. 
He 'd seen them bleed on fields and die. 

And hence to formulate their laws 

'Twas well they should with him rely. 

Each germ of power that 's planted there, 
Each fabric in the mighty build, 

He weighed it all with thought and care. 
His own deep heart the import filled. 

The solons of the ancient Greece 
Did fail to reach the height desired, 

The wise of Rome knew not the peace, 
Nor with the grandest thoughts inspired. 

Down the huge mountain stream of time 
Have nations plunged to rise no more, 

Only to leave wreckage and crime 
And ghost of glory on the shore. 

From these huge ruins of the past, 
This avalanche of shattered hopes, 



ON THE BATTLEMENTS OF LIBERTY. 97 

These wise, good men a vision cast 

And grander build high heaven invokes. 

Those great Columbians, true of soul, 
And zealous for their truth to stand. 

Went to the heart and forged the whole 
Vast architectural scene so grand. 

There 's not a turret, spire, nor gate. 

Nor cornice, capital, nor tower. 
But what this fatherhood of state 

Designed for us in those great hours. 

And as we gaze upon its walls. 

Massive and grand as summer clouds, 

His name shines brightly o'er them all. 
Sublime, immortal, stanch, and proud. 



WASHINGTON UPON THE BATTLEMENTS 
OF AMERICAN LIBERTY. 

UPON those grand stupendous walls 
With banners torn and stained. 
Great Washington with sword in hand. 
Uplifted and with loud command. 
Forever has proclaimed. 

That these herculean battlements 

Were built for freedom's sake. 

And none must dare to come behind, 



POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

Unless a friend to all mankind, 
And zealous for the state. 

These massive labors of an age, 
Forged out, fought out, and raised, 
Were not erected for the wrong. 
Were not erected for the strong, 
But for soul-freedom's praise. 

This sky-built, huge, colossal work. 
The wonder of the world, 
Is where our ancestors began 
To toil, to consummate the plan, 
And freedom's flag unfurled. 

Who dares to battle down the walls, 
Who dares insult the gate. 
Would disenthrone the sun and moon, 
Rob heaven of all the stars as soon, 
And leave the worlds to fate. 

Who would climb up the flag to furl 
Or strike his sabre low. 
Must have a soul dark as the night, 
Must have a sense perverse to right — 
All earth's devouring foe. 

But no, those God-built walls must stand. 
They are crystal rocks of blood, 
They are built with pain, with sighs and tears. 
Their base, when laid, a thousand fears 
Were on the shores and flood. 



THE BIRTHPLACE OF LINCOLN. 99 

They are raised, and time's gigantic hand 

Still strengthens and makes strong; 

When they are taken down, the sons who built 

Must have upon their souls the guilt — 

To them the lasting wrong. 

When stalwart, young America 

Sees not that sword on high, 

The heart, the nerve, the life will cease. 

The beauty of the world, and peace 

Will breathe its last deep sigh. 



THE BIRTHPLACE OF LINCOLN. 

IN Hardin county, in the dark, deep wood, 
Neath summer's sunshine and the winter's storm, 
A lone log cabin there remotely stood, 

The place where Lincoln, best of men, was born. 

It was an eve when winter's wind of might 

Roared in the tall wood, naked, cold, and close. 

This babe came forth, whose little hands should 
write 
The grandest edict that the world disclosed. 

A mother's love was all the infant knew. 
Its humble birth no envy could arise, 

But God, who has for us a purpose true, 

Smiled down that night with ever watchful eyes. 



POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



The snarl of wolf, the howling of the wood, 
The icy wind that ravished every spot. 

Were all the notes of that lone neighborhood 
So grimly near his old log cabin cot. 

This child of honor from his rough log home 
Rose up from poverty to hills of power, 

Here first our Lincoln to the world had come. 
Here in the primal wood his earliest hour. 

Here first his prattle and the spring birds' lay 
Did greet the leaf so lovely to the scene ; 

Here first his little hands began to play 

And crawl beyond the door-sill to the green. 

Here first he stood at mother's knee so strong. 
And here he slept upon his bed of leaves, 

And here he learned to trudge the paths so long. 
To help his father shock the heavy sheaves. 

Here until nine sweet summers of his life 
Did Lincoln know no other home than this. 

A spot long dear in all the varied strife 
Is home of childhood, ever home of bliss. 

Here Lincoln's born, the greatest of the great. 
Here in the lone, deep forest glade he grew, 

And here embraced the idea of the state 

Of which he grasped with every purpose true. 

Here played the boy, who marshaled armies vast, 
Here first the INIoses to the slave began, 



TEMPEST OF JANUARY 25, 1893. loi 

Here in the wild backwoods did God recast 
To this tall youth the nation's future plan. 

Here like the David, who, we read of old, 

Watched on the plains of Palestine the sheep, 

And here we have an Abraham as bold. 
And trusting ever in the God who keeps. 

The old log cabin, rough-built as could be, 
Without a grace or comfort to behold, 

Now stands a sacred heirloom to the free. 
In every mind more dear than lumps of gold. 

Here will the eagle, bannered bird of power, 
Sing to the skies an anthem of the good. 

Here will the glory of that birth and hour 
Cling round his old log cabin in the wood. 



TEMPEST OF JANUARY 25, 1893. 

THE awful thunder roaring o'er the main. 
The midnight's darkness on the sky. 
And drifting snow is on the frozen plain. 
And shores and ponds all ice-bound lie. 

The lightning tiash broke from the freezing clouds. 

And all the field was fire and snow. 
The thundering ocean and the storm more loud 

Made scenes most terrible below. 



POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



I lay and heard the muttering tempest roar, 
And knew how weak were mortal hands 

To push the cloud or winter from the shore, 
Or calm the billows on the strand. 

All, all, I knew was but the work of him 
Who doeth all things with his power, 

And from the awful midnight yet would bring 
To all the glorious daybeam's hour. 

And when the silvery lustre of the day 
Appeared above the orient hills, 

The murky stormclouds all were swept away 
And winter's storm was monarch still. 



SOUTH KINGSTOWN BEFORE THE DIVI- 
SION. 

YE prince of towns, shake off your dust, 
And rise before the mustering foe, 
For legions seem to think they must 

Some little selfish action show. 
May I compare the town a shield 

That hangs in little Rhody's halls. 
Whose beauty their true pride reveals, 

And spreads sweet luster o'er the walls. 
And shines a Venus in the cluster there, 
For none more great with natural charms to share. 

Upon this shield we look with joy, 
So fair with promise and with worth, 



SOUTH KIlXGSTOWN BEFORE DIVISION. 103 

Embossed by nature's high employ, 

Our wealth, our township, home and birth. 

For waving hills and valleys deep, 
Our father's noblest hope and pride, 

And level fields where harvest reap, 
Lie here and there so rich and wide, 

And groves and lakes and ever-flowing streams 

And cities young add their glory to the scene. 

\\'hile ocean's mighty wave surrounds 

In part the shield of proud designs. 
The wave which girds the globe around 

And feels the gale of every clime ; 
Besides from all these God-built charms 

We have on fame's sweet hills of pride 
Two heroes who have led our arms 

At Erie and South Mountain side, 
And jurist, statesmen, sages' names enrolled 
Whom ages yet may write with names in gold. 

And of the past we have delight 

To love these spirits of renown, 
Whose luster throws its genial light 

O'er every hearthstone of the town, 
Will not permit the severing blow 

To part the strength and purpose true ; 
For by it what of wisdom show 

More honor to be one than two, 
Part not with what our worthy fathers leave, 
Strike down the sword our honored shield would 
cleave. 



104 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



SHERIDAN'S ARRIVAL AT CEDAR CREEK. 

THE fight at Cedar Creek is known 
To all the Christian land ; 
How Union's arms in camp asleep 

Were w^aked by hostile hands 
And hurried off like frightened sheep 
Before the foe, whose voice of war was deep. 

Their chief that night at Winchester, 

Phil Sheridan the brave. 
Had slept, full many a mile away, 

But heard at morn the wave 
Of cannon's sounds, like battle's fray; 
He knew his foe ; for in them danger lay. 

He mounts his gallant war horse proud, 

And urges to the camp, 
His fear, his soul, his pride were there 

Among those gallant ranks ; 
His steed soon bore his rider where 
His vision caught his routed troops and fare. 

He waves his cap and shouts aloud, 

" Face round the other way. 
We are going back to camp again. 

We '11 whip them in the fray." 
With one more added to the plain 
New war began and glory wreaths his name. 

The news flew on o'er stricken lines, 
" Sheridan is in front ; " 



GRANT PASSING WEST POINT. 105 

Full twenty thousand soldiers spoke, 

" Be conquered now we won't, 
For our old chief with hope unbroke 
Will stand the storm like some unsheltered oak." 

So right about each soldier turned 

With bosom bare and bold. 
And met their great advancing foe 

As Greeks once met of old. 
And there amid the tide of woe 
They fought and fell and won at every blow. 

The victors that were victors but 

One short, sad hour ago, 
Were turned to flight — all that could flee-- 

From Union hearts aglow, 
And Sheridan smiled but to see 
His arms rejoice in their great victory. 



general grant en route for mount 
McGregor passing west point. 

WHEN Grant looked from his palace car, 
As gently round the curve it swung. 
He saw the city from afar 

Where fifty years before he "d come. 

For there in boyhood glee he played, 
And there his mimic battles fought ; 



io6 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

And since those days his nation swayed, 
With lifted sword and power of thought. 

The joy and glory of his soul, 

The pride and height of mortal hope, 

He 'd lived to see like mountains roll 
Away, beyond the vast remote. 

But in that thought to know his day 
Was nobly spent for man's great cause, 

Must have been a soft, reflective ray, 
To cheer his life as evening: draws. 



THE AMERICAN SOLDIER. 

HOW noble stands the soldier boy, 
Also his deed and name, 
They all combine our worth with joy. 
Our country, home, and fame. 

How closely are their works allied 

To what is good and great, 
Other brave men have fought and died 

For a less noble state. 

But here how sweet the cause that led. 
How firm their victories stand. 

The freedom which they bought when bled 
Is still our priceless land. 



THE AMERfCAN SOLDIER. 107 

The savage wilds of eastern worlds, 

The royal ways of old, 
Secession's banner when unfurled, 

The human bought and sold, 

Have all made wars of dire moment, 

All caused a bloody strife, 
And in those scenes our government 

Was nourished into life. 

All that the soldier's valor gave 

To-day we cherish more. 
Go dedicate his honored grave 

With tiny flags he bore. 

We cannot look on ocean vast, 

On mountain, dell, or plain. 
But what the awful battle blast 

Has left its ruddy stain. 

And for this mighty land of ours. 

So glorious, great, and strong, 
All purchased in strife's red hours 

With life's young carnage warm. 

The soldier's life-blood bought it all ; 

How can we pay the debt ? 
How can we ransom for his fall? 

How can we him forget ? 

When shall we tread his Hag so dear, 
The cause for which he died ? 



POEMS OF NE\]' ENGLAND. 



Will centuries roll the fated year? 
And who the storm descried ? 

Shall it be when the last warm drop, 

His very life-blood gore, 
Shall through the veins of children stop, 

And memory live no more ? 

Shall it be when the chiseled rock 
Shall crumble down and fall ? 

Shall it be when the earth's last shock 
Will bury all in all ? 

But guard him well, his memory note. 
As centuries pass the while, 

For universal hands that wrote 
He 's freedom's battle child. 



SPRING'S FIRST SUNSET, 1894. 

THE setting sun had curtained all the west 
With robes of crimson beauteous to behold ; 
The tirst fair day of spring was taking rest 
Behind the bannered clouds of blue and gold. 

The scene was rich, 't was great, sublime, and sweet 
To know it was the long expected sign 

Of vernal days, our frost-bound hills to greet. 
And take the scepter from our rugged clime. 



LIBERTY'S ADDRESS. 109 

How sweet is life and health to live and see 
The fields rejoice beneath the season's dawn, 

To once more meet the bloom and leafy tree 
And hear the birds rejoice at early morn. 

How far the knowledge seems from man to know, 
The mighty import of a coming year, 

That all the food for millions is to grow — 
A thought so foreign, yet a truth so near. 

The leaves will fall, the season have its death. 
But spring brings back the seed-time and the sun, 

But when man goes, his life seems but his breath, 
And all the joys of earthly nature run. 

But still they tell us in a brighter clime 
He wears eternal spring, and not a leaf 

Decays nor flower grows less, but all divine. 
And nothing sees or feels the stroke of grief. 

With such great promise let the searching mind 
Rejoice to think of what a wondrous fate 

There is in store, and bless the hand so kind 
Which made the realm His all-divine estate. 



LIBERTY'S ADDRESS TO THE PATRIOTS 
OF 1775. 

ISE, patriots of a virgin realm, 
And from yourselves shake every fear. 
And bravely grasp the battle helm 
And raise the flag you love so dear. 



R 



POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



For now the time, the daybeam breaks, 
The host is holding servile sway, 

Your liberties with smiles they take. 
They 've come for battle, not for play. 

My children were not born for chains, 
They are holy heirs to heaven and earth 

Their liberty is God's domain. 

His footstool is their glorious hearth. 

Rise, then, my heroes, lift that blade 
And gird that armor ever bright. 

And make your life's last pilgrimage 
In laboring for the down-trod right. 

When battle's awful knell is rung 
Take courage and be ever brave. 

For in the strife, ages to come 

Will ever guard your field and grave. 

Ten thousand thousands songs shall rise, 
As centuries roll their flights so vast, 

A thousand shafts will pierce the skies. 
A thousand souls in marble cast. 

Your day will be a glorious day. 

Your names will perish with the stone. 

No age but what will ever pay 
Due homage for this act alone. 

Fight, if the sunbeam of your hope 
Beclouded is with strife's dark ray. 

Then fight again until it 's broke. 
Fight till the foe be swept away. 



THE PEN OE LONGEELLOW. 



THE PEN OF LONGFELLOW 

THAT noble pen has done, 
To write the sparks of thought, 
A monument it 's won, 

It stands with garlands fraught. 

Its beauty is a star 

Within the mental sphere, 
It shines but not afar, 

Its worth is ever dear. 

Genius beside it stands, 

It honors him to be, 
He ruled it long and grand 

For God and for the free. 

Each stone the poet laid 

Is firm upon the base. 
His work to starland made 

America to grace. 

He 's great without a stain 

Of blood of fellowman. 
And such the noblest name 

That does exist or can. 

Time has his glory now 

To save for ages yet ; 
We know he '11 wreath the brow, 

His name we '11 ne'er forget. 



POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



None in his sacred trust 
Will shine more sweetly on, 

Than our loved poet must, 
New England's honored son. 



TICONDEROGA, 1775. 

THE silent stars were brightly shining 
In the western skies at morn, 
When patriots were for freedom planning 
And had round the fortress drawn. 

Soon Colonel Ethan Allen, rapping 

Loudly on the fortress door, 
From slumbers waking up the captain, 

Demanded both keys and store. 

The British guardian of the fortress 
Asked, " By whose word does it fall ? " 

"Heaven and the continental Congress," 
Allen answered — they are all. 

Down England's mighty flag that morning 
Went beneath the feet of men. 

And freedom's folds went up rejoicing 
Born to outlive diadem. 



JOHX BROWN'S MONUMENT. 113 



JOHN BROWN'S MONUMENT RAISED AT 
NORTH ELBA, N. V., JULY 21, 1896. 

A GRATEFUL state, with depth of heart, 
With zeal which all will yet impart 
For liberty's great son, 
Has raised a monument to him. 
More grand in purpose than a king, 
More proud since nation's won. 

For he fought not for glory's sake, 
Fought not for honor, nor for state, 

But fought for bondaged man, 
And for that cause a martyr's grave 
Was all the old Dominion gave 

For his great God-like plan. 

New England heard his dreadful doom, 
All heaven was shaded then with gloom. 

O'er that stupendous deed. 
The mighty West, with giant arms 
Began that day to meet alarms. 

For each brave heart did bleed. 

The boyhood years were on my cheek, 
But yet I heard my niother speak. 

And saw her falling tear. 
When this good man of God's own will 
Was sent a mission to fulfil, 

But fell in prime of years. 



114 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

My mother said : " Who could thwart God, 
Or dare avenge him when he nods, 

And take his child to kill ! " 
And all the nation heard Him speak 
From ocean unto ocean deep, 

Till all revered His will ; 

Till blood was ransomed back for blood 
And carnage, for four years a flood. 

To pay the cruel debt. 
The nation rocked in throes of death 
With agonies at every breath 

And every eye was wet. 

But when the cup was full, God's wrath 
Was then appeased, and then the path 

Lay bright and clear, and all 
Could see how just and pure the war; 
For it was great Jehovah's law 

And grand each martyr's fall. 

To-day New England's staunch old heart 
Is just as soft and will impart 

Some tribute to his fame, 
Whether be rock piled up on rock, 
Or chiseled granite's time to mock. 

Will be in heart the same. 

Yes, his sad death is gravened here. 
It's in our memory and our tear ; 
As on the nation's heart 



AK ODE TO SPRING. 



115 



He, foremost in God's plan for right, 
The first to fall amid the fight 
Immortal for his start. 

And as his monument shall stand, 
So telling, on his sweet birthland 

Looking to mountains far. 
So may the race look up to him, 
Whose death their freedom day did haste. 

A harbinger of war. 

And as the ages roll away 
Shall passions of the war decay 

And all united be ? 
Shall brother's hand clasp brother's hand 
Beside this monument so grand. 

Their son of liberty ? 

Shall eagle's grace with southern wreaths, 
Shall young Columbia bring her sheaves 

This pile of rock to crown, 
And generations of the free. 
Long sing his name from sea to sea, 

And deeds of good John Brown ? 



AX ODE TO SPRING. 

H( )\\' patiently does nature wait, 
With folded arms beside thy gate, 
To hear thy bolts when drawn ; 
For long the tedious winter's moan 



ii6 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

Has made her throbbing bosom groan, 
To once more smile upon her throne 
And hail the budding dawn. 

Alas, she smiles, and fields aglow 
With flowers the sweetest seem to grow 

In vales and mountain side ; 
And all the prospect blooming round. 
And groves are vocal with the sound, 
Where birds in merriment abound, 

To swell the joyous tide. 

She gave the hills a crown of flowers ; 
She gave a vernal hue to bowers, 

And graced the many plains. 
We hear her footfall in the streams. 
Her voice in birds that sing serene. 
Her life in every leaf of green. 

Her smile in morning's flame. 



MIND IN AMERICA. 

MIND in America is free ; 
It has no prison walls. 
No hand of state to guide. 
No church that dares provide 
Those old and cruel thralls. 

Mind is the gift of God, 

The mental life of man, 



MIND IN AMERICA. 117 

The part that cannot die. 
Its Giver from on high 

Hath wrought it in his plan. 

America we love to hail, 

For here we see its power, 
Here mind can praise its God, 
It has no sovereign rod — 

Free all and every hour. 

Mind is the mine of wealth, 

It should by right be free ; 
It guides the guardian hand, 
The watch-tower of our land, 

The rock of liberty. 

Mind is a realm that every man 

Has free for his own good, 
His duty first to sow the seed 
To make a rich and fruitful mead. 

Or all those duties should. 

To keep America so free 

Where mind can have its sway. 
What must these sovereign people do 
To have the path made clear and true 
For all the coming days ? 

The church, the school, the press we say 

Have made our nation great. 
But patriotism, which is love, 
For country, home, and God above, 
\^'ill also save the state. 



POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



THE THOUGHT OF OLD AGE. 

'• /^"^OULD I once more to youthful age return 
V.^ And have that cheek that long with health 
did burn ! 
Oh, for a world to ransom back the days 
Of toil already spent undue of praise ! " 
This was the wish my aged father gave 
A few short weeks before he filled the grave. 
I well remember the glad year that came 
For me to vote, and rights as man to claim ; 
And we to Kingstown went, and I think passed 
The polls together — the first time and the last, 
If memory serves me well. For he was old. 
And I was young, with mind all new as gold. 
I well remember him ; he stood among 
A large concourse of people, old and young; 
He gazed around for faces once he knew. 
They passed before him, for he saw but few 
Of those that used to meet town-meeting days, 
And greet each other with their usual ways. 
I stood and looked upon my father there, 
Who once was strong, robust, and very fair ; 
Now bent with age and work, and spirits low. 
For one and all the scythe of time will mow. 
He still stood looking as I came within 
His gaze, perhaps a rod or so from him. 
He said, " Well, Jefifery, can this be you ? 
The only face I 've seen I really knew. 
Except my neighbors, and they are not here. 



ETERNITY. 119 



The hill looks natural, but things do n't appear 

As did some fifty years ago or more, 

For then I knew full half that passed before 

Me ; but now how few I seem to know. 

But age, you see, has made things thus and so." 

Is this our fate, is this the young man's lot, 

By his own friends, when old, to be forgot ? 

The younger generations taking lead. 

And of the older paying little heed ? 

Let every youth deep reverence pay to age, 

For such we'll want in the last pilgrimage. 



ETERNITY. 

AS early daylight swept o'er the field 
And filled the valleys with a sleepy mist, 
A worthy thought to my weak mind revealed — 
How in eternity should we exist .^ 

Shall we be there, as countless ages roll. 
To view the splendor and rejoice therein ? 

Or will each be a sad, dejected soul, 
Forever laboring under awful sin I 

Shall we behold forever things as grand 
As the sweet promise on the golden page, 

Where the eternal holds a welcomed hand 
To all the world, the same from age to age .'' 



POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



For well we know eternity is one 

Vast space, which thought nor limit bounds, but 
how 
Shall we this future spend, where there's no sun 

To set upon our joys or troubled brow ? 

Now will there be no foreign shores to hail, 
A desert with no cool, reviving stream, 

A torrid sky with no refreshing gale, 

A realm unnoticed by the Eye supreme ? 

Or will we meet with Him who held the sea 

Within His hand and formed the planetary state ? 

Will not we think, then, vast eternity 

Is none too Ions: to live with Him, so great ? 



STATUE OF COLUMBUS UNVEILED IN 
CHICAGO. 

THE man of oceans and of worlds, 
Of continents and nations great; 
The man whose wisdom spanned 
The earth around and planned 
The course to navigate and find 
Those western shores, is here unveiled 
In marble for mankind to hail. 

Great country of our own, from shore 
To shore we render heartfelt praise 



STATUE OF COLUMBUS UNVEILED. 121 

For him who was so good. 

Yet little understood. 
In life his fate so harsh, unjust. 
Which almost brings a world in tears 
To think upon his last, sad years. 

The crowning glory of his day 
Was battling with the ocean's might. 
Their vastness was no fear, 
Their tempests drew no tear, — 
The waves, the wind, the awful storm 
Were managed with a will and power 
That made him conqueror every hour. 

These vast United States cannot 
Extend a praise that 's not his due ; 

No flag that is unfurled 

Upon the western world 
But what great homage owes to him : 
No land nor government so great 
But what they owe to him the state. 

How can we praise his glorious name 
Who has the first right to his fame. 

More than the world at large ! 

It all has him in charge. 
All will his lasting victory tell, 
And all will lend some day a hand 
To build his monument so grand ! 

Where shall it stand ? 1 see its dome 
Lift up to cloudland by the main; 



POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



Flags of the western world 

Around it all unfurled; 
Upon its top-most crown a ship 
Of gold, with bows thrown off to sea, 
Our hero at its helm with Liberty I 



MASSASOIT'S ARRIVAL IN NEWPORT. 

J'nr^WAS midday and the seas were rough, 
X Late by the storms annoyed, 

And vision far beyond the bluffs, 
To keenest eyes destroyed. 

But tars impatient scan the bay. 

Some inbound sail to spy, 
When presently o'er waves away 

A sea-tossed craft descry. 

They watch amused to see it glide 

The billows as they rise. 
Then lost between the rolling tide 

To all discerning eyes. 

How strong the arms must be, they say, 

To push it on so fast. 
For swift it speeds through ocean spray 

And on against the blast. 

Some said they knew the sachem's boat, 
And some had seen the king ; 



OUR ASSASSINATED GARFIELD. 123 

They all declared 't was him afloat, 
Some earnest deed to bring. 

And when its bows the breakers prest, 

For then each one could see 
"T was Massasoit, ever blest 

In memory of the free. 

The news then filled the little town 

That Massasoit was near, 
And all the people soon came down 

To see the king appear. 

The royal boat unbannered ploughed 

The billows high and grand, 
A few more strokes, he beached its bows 
Upon the beaten sands. 



OUR ASSASSINATED GARFIELD. 

COLUMBIA'S shore now mourns for thee. 
Our virtuous son of sweetest fame, 
What tribute must from sea to sea 
Be given to thy most gracious name ! 
All bent in sorrow o'er thy bier, 
We drop each one a heart-felt tear. 
And memory long will hold you dear 
Through centuries on. 



124 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

Thy death has sorrowed .very heart 
Within the Christian lands around, 
To think thy God-like life must part 
Before thy brightest days are crowned. 
But God knows best. His wisdom's past 
Our mortal keen, like oceans vast 
Are all his ways ! bless him who hast 
His love and song. 



THE FRENCH ASSISTING AMERICA. 

WHO can forget ten thousand brave 
Who crossed the broad Atlantic wave, 
Our Liberty of old to save, 

From kings unjust 
Who fought to keep us down as slaves, 
Then fight we must. 

We turn our proud historic page 
Back to that long illustrious age, 
And see the names that were engaged. 

And read their deeds. 
With them we battled England's rage 

On sea and mead. 

And first of those we honor yet 
Was the immortal Lafayette ; 
And Rochambeau we ne'er forsfet. 



PATRIOTISM OF LAFAYETTE. 125 

For them we owe, 
While Diestaetiges proud deck was wet 
From carnage flow. 

De Grasse, too, is bright in fame, 
For he struck terror to the main, 
And George the Third did fight in vain 

His ships of power. 
Let freedom's hilltops sound his name 

Each day and hour. 

The sterling hearts from foreign lands 
That fell at sea and by the strand, 
Deserve a flower from every hand, 

And tongues to tell, — 
Would we America command 

Unless they fell. 

Pause, freemen, and reflect and know 
That we, in those dark days of woe, 
Were struggling with a mighty foe 

With power and will ; 
France saw our need and gave the blow 

That fell to kill. 



THE PATRIOTISM OF LAFAYETTE. 

THE stately name of Lafayette 
Stands as a mighty pier 
Beneath the glorious bridge that spans 
The chasm of our battle lands 
To fields more rich and dear. 



126 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

Ah, when the engineers of old 

Drafted this structure grand, 
Who then would come to give support 
Much less to leave a royal court. 
From honor, wealth, and land ? 

But Lafayette for freedom's cause 
Crossed ocean broad and deep. 
And volunteered with hands to hold 
The piers and arch of pearl and gold 
To make the cause complete. 

These piers of gold and spans of pearl 

Did rest on honored forms 
Who fought in those illustrious days, 
Or acted for the nation's praise 
In state and battle's storm. 



THE SWORD OF WASHINGTON. 

THE sword of Washington, I sing. 
Immortal blade of yore. 
Whose victory made creation ring. 
And won for us the shore. 

To-day that glittering arm is sheathed 

Upon our walls of state. 
While eighty millions stand to wreathe 

And guard its memory great. 



THE SWORD OF WASHIh'GTOX. 127 

The victories this sword hath won 

Can never half be told ; 
Mountain that rises to the sun 

And made of solid gold, 

Could not our liberties have bought 

As this old sword has done ; 
Could not been with such laurels fraught, 

And we no Washington. 

But when we think of those grand days 

When it began to shine, — 
'Twas when the world began to praise 

The purpose and design. 

All men looked on its infant beams, 

Upon the Cambridge Heights, 
And there with loyalty supreme 

Did our great foes invite. 

The night he crossed the Delaware, 

With winter's storms abroad. 
The foe at Trenton grief did share 

From young Columbia's lord. 

At Princeton, too. that sabre Hash 

A thousand looked, but fate 
Came with the awful battle crash. 

And England's loss was great. 

At Flatbush long the hostile power 
Cheered on the well-fought plain ; 



128 POEJ/S OF NEW ENGLAND. 

At White Plains, too,— ill-fated hour — 
The patriot fell in vain. 

But Monmouth's long immortal fields 

We never can forget, 
Where enemies were made to yield, 

For this brave sword was wet. 

At Germantown and Brandywine 
Its radiance flashed on high, 

But royal arms swung back his lines 
To flee or stand and die. 

The summer's sun and winter's storm. 
And changing seasons roll, 

But yet the sword of Washington 
Our destinies controlled. 

And when the last great day had come 

On Yorktown's shore afar. 
And Lord Cornwallis was undone 



This grand old sword of glorious birth 
Flashed 'round the world its beam. 

And ever since has all the earth 
Revered it as supreme. 

This grand old sword of Washington, 
Our priceless heirloom given, 

Borne from the angry battle storms 
By arms which fought for heaven. 



THE STAFF OF FRANKLIN. 



THE STAFF OF FRANKLIN. 

HOW proud we young Columbians feel 
To have this grand old staff, 
Whose usefulness had been with him, 
In presence of Louis the king, 
Acting in our behalf. 

In those great daj's our nation then 
Was young and wanted strength, 

Its bulwarks were the souls of men 

Whose patriotism was a gem 

That shines the world's full length. 

Young as we were, and brave in heart, 

Our courage, too, was bold ; 
But yet a helping hand was sweet, 
And France held out one to complete 

Those victories of old. 

Franklin, when in the royal court. 

Our early cause in hand. 
With staff and cloak, himself a king 
Who had our cause, and none but him 

Could done so well and grand. 

After the patriot arms had won 

On Saratoga's field. 
His cause began to take the form ; 
For really men saw there was born 

Something that would not yield 



130 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

And France lent aid, and Franklin's faith 

Was never dark nor drear ; 
Firm as the old staff which he bore, 
That his United States would more 

Than pay for blood and tears. 

This staff assisted long the sage 
Through his last walks of life ; 
We see him 'neath the tempest cloud, 
While heaven with its red storm was loud, 
Shaking the world with strife. 

We see him 'neath the throne of France 

Imploring for our state. 
While his new shores with battle throes 
Were agonizing with the woes 

From George the Third, so great. 

This grand old cane, yes, let it hang 

A blessing to the free ! 
It's been with him through all the years. 
When our great country thrilled with fears. 

Sweet gift to Liberty ! 



SOME THOUGHTS FOR THE FUTURE. 

WE sit down 'mid the cares of life 
And think what would become of those 
Who may depend upon our hands, 
As well as work's unfinished stands, 
If we should leave the scene of strife. 



THE LABORING MAN. 131 

But years roll in and cares grow more, 
While age advances with a tread 
More firm than Napoleon's power, 
Or Sherman's mighty host that hour 
When met the broad Atlantic shore. 

What is a life but care and woe ? 
How can a summer harvest bring 
Unless the sky is dark with storm, 
And each green leaf is almost gone 
Before the tempest or the blow ! 

Firm as our hold on life may be, 
Yet some sad day our grip must fall. 
And all our cares and works must cease ; 
Whether the soul find death or peace, 
Our tide is ebbing out to sea. 

So let our work and care each day 
Come to a close as near as can, 
Each morning with a hand to do. 
Each evening with a prayer that "s true. 
That all be well when we go way. 



THE LABORING MAN. 

A HAPPY man is one that works, — 
An adage long and true ; 
A man of misery, one that shirks 
The things he ought to do. 



132 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

I know it by experience, — 
Such knowledge is the best ; 

I thank the all-wise Providence 
For His divine bequest. 

A man gets married and begins 
With nothing but his hands ; 

He finds it takes the very vim 
Of life to all withstand. 

Or, if a man gets once in debt. 
And meets with some reverse, 

Then all his labors seem beset, 
And then what can be worse ! 

The labor is not sweet at all, — 
A thousand are so caught- — 

And happiness is dreadful small. 
With strife and sorrow fraught. 

But to be happy we must save 

The pennies as they come. 
To guard against affliction's wave. 

That washes every home. 

Not think we 're rich when we have got 

One hundred dollars free ; 
But save right on, and never stop 

Until it's three times three. 

Then, if your labor pays you well. 
Keep right along the same ; 

Perhaps you 've struck the vein that tells. 
And fortune grace your name. 



BOVS, BUY A HOME. I33 



BOYS, BUY A HOME. 

THERE is a home for those who toil 
Waiting for them somewhere, — 
Some pebbled stream, some healthful soil, 
Some spot repaying care. 

Some fertile glade where virtuous hands 
Have not its worth destroyed, 

Or some old home with orchard lands 
Where labor once enjoyed. 

I 've seen a change in my old place 

Since I was but a lad : 
Homes where no sorrow had its trace 

Are now all lone and sad. 

Those places now have all been sold. 

By diligence I 've got 
A part of one by hard-earned gold. 

Beside my playground spot. 

And so you see these pleasant hearths 

Were waiting then for me ; 
Could I believe those homes of worth 

Were fated so to be ! 

No, I could not ; but still I 've saved 

My dollars as they 've come. 
And kept myself a busy slave 

Until I had a home. 



34 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND 

And now my home is earned and free 

For all claims there upon ; 
I 'm everywhere I want to be, 

If it 's to bed at morn. 

I seek the shade in noontide heat, 
I write and read and laugh ; 

Nothing to urge from my retreat. 
Unless some joy to quaff. 

I hear not on my door at morn 

A quick and hasty rap. 
By some old surly, hoary form, 

Before I 've done my nap, 

Inviting me some debt to pay. . 

No, no ; my boys, it 's o'er ; 
I sleep, if wish, to blooming day, — 

Untouched my outside door. 

Now do not think I mean to boast 

Of my dependent life. 
For wants come in some days by hosts 

To lend my joys some strife. 

I only want to tell you now, 
Each one can treasure find ; 

But to obtain you must allow 
It's soothing to the mind. 

Now try to let your paths some day 
Be strewed with flowers of ease, 

The world will seem more bright and gay 
And joy our wants appease. 



BATTLE OF RHODE ISLAND. 135 



BATTLE OF RHODE ISLAND, AUG. 29, 1778. 

IN Revolutionary days, 
When these United States 
Were taking form to be a land 
Of principle and freedom grand 
For children long to praise. 

The king's strong fleet and army, too, 

Lay in Rhode Island realm ; 
His fleet on Narragansett Bay, 
His troops on Portsmouth's hill away. 

Ready to act and do. 

Newport was pillaged of its food, 

The farms of forage stripped ; 
The cattle of a hundred hills 
W^ere sent the royal arms, to fill 

The foe in hostile mood. 

DeGrasse's fleet was on the w^ave. 

To conquer if they could, 
While Washington and Lafayette, 
With Sullivan and Greene, to get 

Behind their camp, as brave. 

A storm had swept the fleets to sea, 

While yet the land force stood 
With attitude of courage firm. 
Each man, like walls or guns as stern, 

Awaiting: the decree. 



136 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

While Washington, with wisdom great, 

Planned the attack for war, 
And crossed the Rowland ferry bridge 
And camped beyond upon the ridge. 
His mighty foe to wait. 

When soon the fatal gun was heard. 

The battle blast was on ; 
The royal host skirt every mead, 
They rush, they press up, but to bleed,- 

The depths of war were stirred ! 

Rhode Island's stanch militia fought, 

Her troops were there, as well ; 
New England's valor filled the field, — 
Mighty to fight and hard to yield — 
With early laurels fraught. 

The English, also, knew that fight 

Was their last quarter given. 
For they were pent upon an isle, 
And if their fortune should not smile. 
Their hope was dark as night. 

So every soldier of the king 

Fought with a zeal and might. 
And patriot arms began to feel 
The fury of the British steel ; 
For it was used with vim. 

As closer, with determined power, 
They press the patriot hills. 



AT THE BATTLE OF STOXIXGTON. 137 

Until their lines must fall away ; 
For dreadful had become the fray, 
And fateful was the hour. 

Wise every day was Washington, 

And hence he gave the field, 
And royal banners crowned the hills 
And soldiers w'ith new life were filled, 

For they had fought and won ! 



FATHER AT THE BATTLE OF STONING- 
TON, AUG. 14, 1 8 13. 

BRILLIANTLY the day was setting 
O'er the Pequot summer fields. 
When 't was whispered, England's coming. 
And all Stonington must yield ! 

Bravely stood one in the column 
And looked on the ships of war, 

As they sent the shell and rocket 
To the burning town afar. 

Valiantly stood all New England 

In those angry days of strife, 
And a power stood firm as mountains 

'Round its freedom-loving life. 

It was those stanch boys of battle 
Who prepared themselves that day 



138 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

To resist the mighty Briton, 
If they landed for a fray. 

But the war host never landed, 

So the valor of the few 
Never had a chance to thunder 

Out their vengeance on the crew. 

If they all had been like father, 
Dreadful small a victory been ; 

For he was as brave as could be, 
Neither 'fraid of ship nor men. 

And I do presume his comrades 
Were of mettle like to him, 

For we know it took brave soldiers 
To encounter George the king. 

And to speak no more of valor. 
And to judge from one I knew, 

England acted with the wisest 

When her ships and men withdrew. 



OUR NEW NAVY. 

IN this great engineering age 
Our country turns another page 
Whereon to see. 
And there we find 'tis wise to make 
A sure defence unto the state 
While we are free. 



OUR NEW NAVY. i39 

It 's not the deep intent at heart, 
While we such measures do impart, 

Intending strife; 
Oh, no. The day is past, it's gone; 
We will not sound the battle horn 

Only for life. 

These grand new steel-clad ships, so strong,. 
Whose majesty now lifts my song, 

Are but our pride. 
May they no sure offence portend, 
But only our defense and friend 

When foes decide. 

May our wise statesmen ever hold 
And fondle them, like dolls of gold, 

Within their arms ; 
Or let the skies above embrace 
And wild storms rock them in the race 

When winds alarm. 

A thousand keels may grace the wave, 
A thousand bows the ocean brave. 

Peace to invite. 
Humanity must be the strife, 
Or mankind rising for its life. 

For them to fight. 

On whatsoever main they roam. 
May they reveal the light of home, 
So sweet and dear ! 



POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



They 're built to voice Columbia's heart, 
Her love and glory to impart, 
Without a fear. 



POTTER'S POND. 

IN days gone by, at Perryville, 
There used to be a pond, 
Where passersby would seek their fill ; 
Their horse, as well, was fond. 

But fifty years ago and more 

The water sank awa}^. 
And left its old, wave-beaten shore 

With all its shapes to-day. 

The weeds and grass have grown apace. 

And stone walls also guard 
This old, historic watering-place. 

Of which has fate been hard. 

The men whose works the nation made 

When on the Pequot Path, 
Like Franklin, on his pilgrimage. 

And men of battle wrath. 

Like Washington and Sullivan, 

Of Schuyler and of Greene, 
W^ho led the patriot union van 

Through those deep, stirring scenes. 



GRANT AT FORT DONELSON. 141 



And doubtless these great men of old 
Have turned their steeds to drink 

Down the steep way, so rough and bold. 
To its delightful brink. 



GRANT AT FORT DONELSON. 

A SOLDIER from a Western town, 
When heard the news of war, 
Laid all his daily labors down 

To meet the foe afar. 
And wildly mid the battle smoke. 

With comrades brav^e he sprung, 
And fought till their huge column broke 
The rebel strength at Donelson. 

Upon the banks of Cumberland 

His battle-field was red. 
The hillsides of his great command 

Were quaking with his tread ; 
But 'neath his feet the rebel flag 

Fell down in battle done. 
For 'twas a world's insulting rag. 

And could not live at Donelson. 

The starry folds born not to die 

On that tremendous field. 
But destined to remain on high 

Till soldiers all should yield, 



142 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

Or long as they Grant's war horse see 

Bearing its rider on ; 
They made the fields a jubilee, — 

The blood-stained hills of Donelson. 

For twenty thousand rebel men 

Stack up their guns that day; 
The Union was too much for them, 

Though well they fought the fray. 
Around the world his triumph rolled, 

A victory timely won, 
For here secession's mighty hold 

Was rent away at Donelson. 



SLAVERY. 

DOWN deep into Columbian's soil 
The germ of war had sent its root, 
Mighty the tree that grew the while 

And far its poisonous branches shoot. 
Until the fair hills of her fame 
Were but the shadows of a name. 
This awful tree was planted when 
America enslaved its men. 

This battle seed of long ago 

Had grown to mountain's strength and height 
The broad fields of our new-born world 

Were doomed to grow its dreadful might ; 



SLAVERY. 143 



And who could battle down its power, 
And who could lead the fearful hour, 
For Freedom's heart must surel}^ break, — 
Her land for Freedom was at stake. 

The great God of universal worlds 

Looked down with kindly eyes on man. 
Until he saw that every hope 

Was lost in slavery's cruel plan ; 
And soon the showing of his hand 
Must be once more to save the land, 
For he was God, and man was man. 
And man and God fought slavery's plan. 

His sad, deep hours of anguish long 
Had fixed the limits of that shade 
Of this tall tree. And it must fall 

Upon the ground whose life had made. 
And when he called his laborers on 
To then avenge the nation's wrong. 
The strife was well, for he was there. 
And who against his judgments dare ! 

Eut high above the dreadful storm 

The beam of justice could be seen ; 
The North, the West, looked on, and knew 

'T would turn by will of the Supreme. 
The nation's sin a hundred years 
Was doomed to cease, tho' blood and tears 
Should flow the ground ; but slavery's sin 
Must sink beneath the battle's din. 



M4 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

A hundred times ten thousand graves 
Were not too much to ransom guilt 
Which Freedom's loving souls did owe 

To Afric's sons, whose lives they spilt : 
A hundred thousand mothers' tears, 
And fathers', too, for loved ones dear 
Were thrown into this gulf of strife, 
As sacrifice for nation's life. 

The slave was free, the storm was o'er, 

The smoke of battle passed away. 
Now all mankind with pride acclaim 

The worth and greatness of that day. 
Time cannot banish from the page 
The country's crime of its young age ; 
But God will surely lift the race 
To hold, with all, its equal place. 



LOSS OF THE STEAMSHIP COLUMBUS, 
JANUARY i8, 1884. 

THE winter's wind was roaring loud, 
The waves were rising to the cloud, 
And awful strains were on the shroud 

Night filled with woe ; 
Death was not in the storm nor cloud. 
But in an awfulness less proud 
Down deep below. 



LOSS OF THE SCHOONER JOHN PAUL 145 

And as the waves rolled from the rock 
The mighty steamship took her shock, 
And all her souls in death were locked 

Among the waves. 
And eV'Cry scene their sorrows mock 
And from their helpless grasp would walk 

Above their graves. 

Could old Columbus had the wheel 
Whose name she bore, we trust and feel 
That somehow rocks would shun her keel ; 

For storm could not 
Deceive nor master nor conceal, 
Nor ocean's mightiest waves reveal 

A grander spot. 

But tempest's awful wrath that night 
Made ocean, land, and heaven affright; 
For all the elements unite 

The world to 'larm. 
And in the battling of their might 
Tremendous were their fates that night, 

Helpless man's arm. 



LOSS OF THE SCHOONER JOHN PAUL, 
FEBRUARY 10, 1893. 

THIS stately schooner, staunch and brave, 
A mistress of the ocean wave, 
So short a pride and boast. 
Queen of the hurricane and storm, 



146 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

Princess of tempest young and strong, 
Lies shattered on the coast. 

She fell not by the winter's wrath, 
Nor met the cyclone in its path, 

Nor dashed on shore by storm ; 
The unseen shoal, the rock, the reef, 
Were foes that brought her years to grief, 

She struck them and was gone. 

A St. Helena to her pride, 
A Waterloo where glory died. 

There fell her name so brave ; 
Her scepter sheathed in ocean green. 
Her banner never more to stream 

Upon the sea's wild wave. 

A-^ictoria of New England main, 
A name in every sea the same. 

What did her strength command ; 
But in that afternoon her life 
Was doomed to cease with ocean strife 

Upon Rhode Island strand. 

Ship of New England genius strong, 
Ship of our heart's sincerest song. 

The ocean roams no more ; 
Ship of the wilderness and mine, 
The grandest of our modern time, 

Now wrecked upon the shore. 



WINTER. 147 



THE LIFE BOAT'S RETURN TO POINT 
JUDITH, FROM A GALE OF WIND 1885. 

HAIL worthy life boat from the wastes 
Of ocean broad where winds had chased 
'Mid realms of winter strife ; 
Its fate was when the lost discern 
Tempestuous, and of its return 
Was doubtful of its life. 

For winter ruled the awful wave 
And seemed no mercy had to save ; 

And noisy was the storm ; 
But its return awoke the joys 
For bringing back those gallant boys 

So valiant, young, and strong. 

Now gallant life boat long we hail 
\\hose bows can smile beneath the gale, 

And glide the raging wave ; 
P'or its return made every heart 
Give praises to the boat in part 

Who did these heroes save. 



WINTER. 

WHEN awful w'inter breaths upon the plain 
Like some blue monster filling all the sky 
A thousand sorrows tend his annual slain. 
And innocents beneath those sorrows die. 



148 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

We would not criminate ourselves to ask 
Why God ordained the summer life to groan 

Where pleasure lives with happiness to bask, 
And sings to elements so like their own. 

As seasons roll, life lives within the cloud, 
And the sweet gales invite the waking earth. 

Until the fields in tender green enshroud, 
And all creation seems to leap to birth. 

But when cold winter in white doth appear. 

While million shafts on sightless wings descend, 

Piercing the heart of those gay seasons dear 
Until the life on every prospect rends. 



MY OLD HOE. 

FAREWELL, my faithful, worn out hoe, 
Your usefulness is o'er, 
And now I am to lay you by 
To never use you more. 

You made the grass on many a field 

Wilt in the summer sun, 
The corn and the potatoes grew 

When you were there among. 

At morn, at noon, at night the same. 
The world more rich for you, 



OUR CONTINENT. 



Like some strong arm that 's laid to rest, 
Like some one good and true. 

Good-by, old hoe I six summers I 

Have used you in the corn, 
And many a time I 've thought your fate 

Should never have been born. 



OUR CONTLXENT. 

IT makes the patriot bosom glow 
When he beholds his nation's chart: 
A thousand voices whisper low. 

Preserve it, boy, with all thy heart. 

The life blood lifts our courage high, 
Prompted with loyalty and zeal 

To stand by right, let others try 
To dare intrude its common weal. 

We look with pride on ocean's shores 
Where proud Atlantic's billows fall, 

To where the deep Pacific roars, — 
Such frontage, we surpass them all ! 

No other nation in the world, 
And scarce a record with us left. 

Where nations could their flag unfurl 
And claim an ocean east and west. 



50 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

Those inland seas, those rivers broad, 
Proud arteries of our continent. 

No other fleet can o'er them lord 
Unless consent by government. 

Those mountains, wonders of the globe. 
Lifting to cloud-land, cold and blue, 

Drest in eternal winter's robe 

With bases bright in summer hue. 

Yes, brave, eternal, fixed for time. 
The wrath of seasons and of storms 

Cannot subdue ; for power divine 

Ordained and built their lasting forms. 

Yes, prairies roll o'er states that would 
Give honor to a monarch's hand ; 

The world's rich meadow-fields so good 
With grain and oxen fill the land. 

Our continent, the land of bread. 
The home of liberty and life. 

What foot can dare one fabric tread. 
What sober mind engulf in strife ! 

While all is well upon its breast. 
Now look again from sea to sea, — 

Look north and south, look east and west, 
'Tis but a camping land of free. 

Proud continent, forever here 

Composed of more than twoscore states. 



OUR PRESIDENTS. 151 

Each one an empire, lost to fear 

If foreign powers should dare its fate. 

Now all combined, in strength and youth, 
Will lead away with Hags unfurled, 

And make this continent in truth 
The bannered nation of the world. 



OUR PRESIDENTS. 

FIRST on the scene great Washington 
Appeared with sword and pen. 
The loveliest hero of his land. 
The noblest of all men. 

Then Adams, with great powers of state, 

Whose eloquence complete 
Made his young nation's trembling fate 

Stand firmer on its feet. 

Then Jefferson, both great and wise, 

Assumed the nation's helm, 
A just reward for glorious deeds, 

No grander in the realm. 

Next Madison, with zealous hands 
Assumes the White House chair. 

And with the same high purpose grand 
Looks to the nation's care. 



POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



Monroe, with dignity and grace, 

Of patriotism long, 
Steps in the elevated place 

With courage stanch and strong. 

And far and wide his mandate fell, — 
Old England learned to kneel, 

And found America could tell 
Her how to use the steel. 

Another Adams fills the chair, 

The son of him so grand, 
Whose life was marked by patriot care. 

And loved by all his land. 

Then Jackson next, a hero long 
From bloody fields of strife. 

And lived as brave, as true, and strong 
As Ajax lived his life. 

Van Buren then comes up before 

The people with a stride, 
And his command, from shore to shore. 

The millions all abide. 

Next Harrison, one month in power. 
When Tyler takes command. 

And progress fills the flying hours 
Of this most happy land. 

Polk next appears, but slavery's seed 
Began to blossom fast ; 



OUR PRESIDENTS. 153 

The wisest could not well proceed, 
For 'twas against the blast. 

Then Taylor comes in but to die, 

And Fillmore takes the chair; 
He fills the cup of slavery's wrath 

And bondsmen to despair. 

And Pierce arrives. New England's boy, 

With shackles for the slave, — 
A servant in the South's employ, 

Pledged hand its cause to save. 

Buchanan, too, all lost to praise. 

Commands the ship of state. 
And war was fixing all the time 

He held the trust so great. 

Lincoln, the people's candidate, 

Assumed the high control, 
And mad secession fix their fate 

And fast the war clouds roll. 

They would not stand the Northern will, 

They broke the pledge of old, 
And dared the Union's blood to spill 

And trample down the folds. 

But slavery fell, the Union stood, — 

Four years the carnage flowed ; 
All hail to those, the brave and good, 

Our nation's strength bestowed ! 



154 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

But Lincoln, martyred for his deeds, 
The last shot of the strife ; 

His blood on those that did secede, — 
Great God knows every life. 

Johnson, less noble and less wise, 

Fills the lamented place ; 
But soon distrust in all men's eyes 

And wrong things come apace. 

Grant comes, the conqueror of the war, 
On Fame's red chariot borne, 

With plumes of glory and a star 
From bloody conquests torn. 

Hayes, the meek and patriot son. 
Succeeds a Caesar's chair ; 

His rule in state with purpose strong 
For all his country's care. 

Garfield rides in with pomp and power. 
But falls before the blade. 

And Arthur nobly takes the hour 
With honor strong and staid. 

Cleveland, the mighty without deeds, 
Takes hold with courage strong, 

And valiantly the land proceeds 
To march sedate along. 

Next Harrison, a grandson brave. 
Of that old chief of yore 



LLYCOLN COMING TO ILLINOIS. 155 

Takes up the helm, but nothing grave 
Appeared for him in store. 

Cleveland again, the second term, 

Comes like a cloud of storm. 
And as a tempest just as stern, 

All hope the day when gone. 

McKinley next assumes in time 

The presidential chair, 
To stop the wreckage and the crime 

That Cleveland's rule had shared. 



LINCOLN COMING TO ILLINOIS. 

THE winter storm had swept the plain 
Like sea waves on the distant main, 
And every field was cold ; 
But o'er the blast-worn realm so wide 
Some had a wearied train descried. 
When skies to earth had rolled. 

Before the eve had kissed the sky 
The rugged prairie team passed by, 

With stalwart oxen eight ; 
A s.ober youth of giant form 
With strength to battle every storm 

Wielded the gourd so great. 



156 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

With this display of rural worth, 
From honest toil, from lowly birth. 

This mighty man of fate 
Unyoked his sore-foot hungry herd. 
His journey ended, and a word 

He hails the new-born state. 

At morn he fell the rugged wood 
Which skirted on the neighborhood. 

To build a house and home ; 
He broke the prairie, split the rail. 
By time the spring had tilled the gale 

Or summer birds had come. 

Long will the state of Illinois 

And all the world with them rejoice 

O'er those that day moved in : 
None but his Maker knew his worth, 
'T was in his plan from earliest birth 

To raise the land a king. 

As ancient Israel did of old, 

Whose king was reared amid the fold. 

To fill God's way and will. 
So out where corn and cattle grow 
Where millions reap and millions sow 

Once more his purpose still. 

In youth the mighty buffalo. 
The panther, wolf, and bear, his foe, 
A hundred fears to chance. 



THE HEART-BROKEN' MOTHER. 157 

But in the primal scenes came out 
A man whose scepter should be stout, 
Slavery's avenging lance. 

High heaven may sing its victory won 
Through this immortal farmer's son, 

From poverty to power. 
Yes ! will our Lincoln's name long live 
Among the mighty whom God gives 

Till time's remotest hour. 



THE HEART-BROKEN SLAVE MOTHER. 

\ T 7'AY down in slavery's ugly days 

V V When crime was wild as ocean waves. 
One deed survives for which to gaze 
And wake our mercy for the slave. 

This oft-repeated crime for years, 

This auction block where men were sold. 

Its depths of guilt so deep appears 

That age dims not though deed be old. 

One story to the memory clings 

Enough for every heart to bleed, 
So dark revolting that it brings 

A tear before we scan the deed. 

One day the wicked master said 

That he sometime must sell some slaves, 



POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



For they were numerous to be fed 

And what they brought himself might save. 

Upon the block a mother brought 

With her small boy a baby fair, 
Within her arms he meekly sought, 

Of course, for all his needs and care. 

She smiled upon her infant lad 

And he returned it with a kiss. 
He knew not that her heart was sad, 

For then his days were days of bliss. 

A purchaser walked up and said : 
" I '11 buy her for my girl, who will 

I think be shortly wed, 

A list of gifts she '11 nobly fill ; 

That little brat I '11 give away 

For he 's no good to me or her." 
A stander-by with spirit gay 

Quickly said : " I '11 take him, thank you, sir. 

The mother heard the bargain made, 

And soon the tears gushed warm and fast ; 

Her arms more firmly round him laid 
And kissed him thrice within that grasp. 

That night she and her little son 
Were resting in their usual place. 

Her arms were loosely round him flung 
While he her bosom sweetly graced. 



THE HEART-BROKEN MOTHER. 159 

When slumbers had her eyelids closed, 
And dreams were rampart o'er the mind, 

That stealthy man-thief, unopposed, 
Stole that loved boy of humankind. 

The mother wakes by time 't was dawn 
And fondles round to find her boy. 

With great surprise she found him gone. 
Her only hope, her only joy. 

One shriek, one moan, one stroke of grief, 
Pervades that dying mother's heart. 

She falls. And death with fingers brief 
Does up its work and life departs. 

And she upon her pillow lay, 

A heart-broke mother, for a crime 
That her offender ne'er can pay 

Through all eternity and time. 

Now where 's the boy, the next will say? 

Was he the story ever told 
Of his dear mother's awful day 

When she in slavery was sold .' 

Could he but know her fate, or we 

Might know the fate of him, and grasp 

His rugged hand which now is free. 
As warm as mother used to clasp. 

But fate has sealed, we cannot know, 
But one thing sure is in our power, 



i6o POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

To use the stranger well, and show 
Regard for all we meet each hour. 

I cannot meet one of that race, 
A stranger unto me, of course, 

But what this tale confronts my face, 

And holds my heart with might and force. 

For 't would be peace to use that man. 
With more than just respect and love. 

For such we owe, if we should scan, 
That cause of crime long disapproved. 

We owe it for his mother's sake. 
We owe it for humanity and right, 

And as a people, which would take, 
The sure foundations to unite. 

We owe it to ourselves, for great 
And mighty crimes soften the heart 

Of man, when he doth contemplate 
And thank his God he 's had no part. 



LOPE DE AGUIRRE'S MOST DESPERATE 
ACT IN STABBING HIS DAUGHTER, 
FEARING SHE MIGHT FALL INTO 
THE HANDS OF HIS PURSUERS. 

WHEN Spanish tyrants swooped upon 
The new world coast, no vulture's greed 
For prey was more complete, for wrong 

And bloodshed showed everywhere their deed. 



LOPE DE AGUIRRE-S DESPERATE ACT. i6i 

This foul, dark leader of a band, 

Whose hands red rapine dared to do. 

Had massacred till all the land 

Long shrieked with terror from the few. 

When royal troops pursued his host 

But to avenge his bloody crimes, 
His flight was past ; no grave or coast 

Could shelter him and his designs. 

This wicked man his girl had brought 

Through all his scenes of slaughtering strife. 

His own dear child, but rage soon taught 
Him more to love her darling life. 

And when he knew his awful days 
Must end, for death his foes decreed 

On him, and none could live to praise 

His own last wild life's struggling deeds ; 

Then to his own fair daughter said : 
" You, too, must die, or live for men 

More bad than I, when I am dead ; 
For see, my foe has filled the glen." 

And with his dagger, grips her arm 

And thrusts it to her heart ; she bleeds. 

And faints in death. Her sire then warms 
The strife with cheers, till massacred. 



POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



THE MOTHER AT THE CRUCIFIXION. 

John 19: 25. 

[This piece was influenced largely by reading " Stabat Mater."] 

THE shrouded sun o'er Judea's hills 
Made every heart of nature thrill 
With silence great. 
For mortal mandate was supreme 
And only heaven could intervene 
Against the state. 

For there upon Golgotha height 
Both earth and heaven were to unite 

In one great scene ; 
It was the death upon the cross 
Of Him to save the world from loss, 

With power supreme. 

'T was He whose birth dethroned a star, 
And shepherds saw it from afar 

Before the morn. 
'Twas midnight; and all Bethlehem 
Was shining with the diadem, 

Jesus was born. 

In manger where the cattle fed 
First lay His little sainted head 

On mother's arm ; 
But in His hand a sceptre lay, 
The wickedness of men to slay. 

And save from harm. 



THE MOTHER AT THE CRUCIFIXION. 163 

If all would but believe in Him, 
As being more than man or king, 

Life to impart ; 
A power to banish guilt away, 
And to restore eternal day, 

Was in His heart. 

Such was the victim for the cross, 
Such was the dreadful shame and loss, 

To wicked men. 
But such the act for that great age. 
The crowning crime of every page. 

But such the plan. 

But did the mother know the will 
Of Him that sent her son to fill 

The promise given ? 
If so, that loving hand must bound 
Her heart deep with affection wound. 

None know, but heaven. 

But all that 's mortal of her soul 
Broke forth in tears beyond control, 

For Him, her boy 
Who was to die without a crime. 
Her darling, and her son divine. 

Heaven and its joy. 

How was her heart with anguish tossed. 
To see Him raised upon the cross 
And see His tear ; 



[64 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

None but a mother's breast can feel 
That love, that sympathy, and weal 
For children dear. 

He looked upon her brow of pain, 
His heart for her was sore aflame 

To see her grief. 
Then turning with despair, He cried: 
" Father, with me come and abide, 

It 's my belief." 

The skies then shook, the earth vibrates, 
All heaven stood at the pearly gates 

His hand to grasp. 
The mountains bowed, the rocks were rent, 
And darkness filled the firmament, 

And all was past. 



OUR NATION'S DESIGNMENTS. 

OUR glorious ancestors once said : 
Now let us build a nation great, 
For here a land that can be made 
Into a free and Christian state. 

If we will only fix the base 

On which to set our hopes so high, 
Then be as martyrs for a race 

If George the Third should dare defy. 



OUR NAT/0 Ar-S DESIGNMEA'TS. 165 

And as we set the corner bounds, 
And the foundation walls so new, 

Let every day with truth be crowned, 
That all our efforts may be true. 

May God look from His starry home. 
To give us guidance, day by day , 

Until the harvest hour shall come 

With sheaves and blessing long to stay. 

Those great Americans then built 

The bulwarks for a hemisphere, 
And said : Let every vein be spilt. 

As sacrifice for freedom here. 

And to put forth those mighty strides, 
They must assume the helm command, 

And to control — a gulf more wide 
Must open 'twixt their motherland. 

But to complete that primal thought, 

So brilliant in the century past. 
And with such earnestness been fraught, 

How deep our reverence and how vast ! 

First mighty Henry fired the state, 
From old Virginia realm of worth ; 

Then Adams made New England great 
And shouts a nation must have birth. 

But who shall plan the field of strife ? 

John Adams said, "George Washington." 



[66 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

The provinces revived to life 

And took the musket, one by one. 

While Franklin crossed the seas to find 
A friend in France, whose helpful hand 

Proved but a friend to all mankind, 
From every clime, from every strand. 

And Morris, too, whose great, good name 
Put forth his gold the strife to aid, 

And others, with less brilliant fame 
Assisted, and the nation made. 

How now for those who bravely bore 
The heat of day, and died to save 

The freedoms of the New World's shore 
From its last deep, untimely grave ? 

Where is the note of praise to touch ? 

Where is the harp for us to sound ? 
What heart can give to them too much. 

Or fail with sweetest memories crowned .'' 

A thousand fields may hold their dust. 
Old Ocean guard their bones with care. 

But we must keep that sacred trust, 
No jot or tittle it impair. 

For these are not liberties that we 
Can squander, and- convey away. 

But hold ; that children may be free, 
And mighty in the coming day. 



THE WORLD'S PROGRESS. 167 



THE WORLD'S PROGRESS, BEGINNING AT 
THE BIRTH OF WASHINGTON. 

WHEN Genius twangs his silver bow, 
What soul can his high call refuse 
To listen, as he makes aglow 

The spirit of a youthful muse, 
And more especial when he sees 

Progress had started at the morn 
To fling his banner to the breeze ! 

When our great Washington was born, 
He made the Nations bow, 
He built a Nation more. 
With freedom did endow 
To spread from shore to shore. 

Upon Mount Vernon's hills the plan 

Was laid on that immortal day. 
That then a nation and a man 

Were born to hold the grandest sway 
That ever graced the mighty earth, 

Or gave to suffering mortal hope ! 
The then Colonial realm gave birth 
And all its galling chains were broke. 
But royal eyes were dim ; 
They could not see the plan 
That this did mean, no king. 
But chiefs chosen by man. 

But Progress saw the glorious star 
Break forth in splendor on the skies, 



1 68 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

To mortal vision 'twas too far, 

And far too dazzling to the eyes ; 
He leaned upon his wand of gold 

And looked abroad the continent, 
As thoughts in his deep bosom rolled 
Upon its future government. 

His soul in silence heard 
The pent up voices sound, 
His breast with glory stirred. 
His gems of worth unbound. 

Let me display my jewels now — 
For this will be a land of mine, 
And young America endow 

With arts that seem of gifts divine ! 
But yet did Progress know that war 

Would rend almost his land in twain ; 
But yet he saw his future car 

Rolling in triumph o'er the plain. 
And as the years go by, 
He points us fields anew. 
The lightning from the sky 
As servant for us drew. 

Now steamships roam the awful deep, 
Swept by his mightiest gem of worth, 

And iron steeds with hoofs so fleet 
That skim like shadows o'er the earth. 

All this the land of Washington 
Within a century has made ; 



WASHINGTON WITH AMERICA'S FATE. 169 

All this for us his victories won, 
All this upon his birth was laid, 
And Progress loves his land. 
He loved it then and now ; 
He's gathering with his hand 
More laurels for our brow. 



WASHINGTON WITH THE FATE OF AMER- 
ICA. 

AMERICA, where was thy fate 
When waveclouds spread the shore? 
Did Washington, the chief of state, 
Have your sweet life in store ? 

Did Washington hold in his arms, 

And fondle with his love. 
This germ that every bosom warms. 

This cause of Heaven above ? 

The world acknowledges he did. 

His enemies acclaim. 
He acted as Jehovah bid, 

He fought without a stain. 

In the reverse of battle might 

On White Plains he foresaw ; 
At Flatbush, too, he left the fight, 

'Twas wisdom to withdraw. 



170 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

At Brandywine and Germantown 

He kept the cause in view, 
He fought that victory might crown 

His efforts just and true. 

All winter in that freezing camp, 

At Valley Forge he holds 
Our glorious cause with dying ranks, 

Or sick, heart-broken souls. 

Yet with a stanch, unfaltering hope 
He trusts that heaven will smile. 

For dawn comes when the night is broke 
The world to reconcile. 

And as the dark, cold hand of woe 

Was risen o'er his camp. 
He saw the vast, uplifted blow 

To aid his stricken ranks. 

With hope anew, with banners high. 
He dares the field once more. 

And plans, and fights, and fortifies. 
Till battle days were o'er. 

And on the fatal Yorktown hill 
Our fate resplendent shone, 

Its brilliancy the world did thrill, 
Its glory was our own. 

There from the hands of Washington, 

He gave it to his land, 
And we transcend it to the sons. 

And they it must command. 



THE UNION MUST NO'l DISSOLVE. 171 



THE UNION MUST NOT DISSOLVE. 

SOME say the Union will dissolve, 
The stateshood tie be broken, 
The cause for which to be involved 
Nobody yet has spoken. 

But one great cause I will declare, 

Why it shall never sever, — 
It is because each owns a share 

And all will keep it ever. 

The children of New England blood. 
The Western boys will cluster. 

Six months this side of either flood 
For honor's sake will muster. 

Such men I mean as manhood claims 

One spark of patriot glory, 
Who loves his brother's free domain. 

And hears the ancient stor}'. 

If forty farmers should agree 

To bind themselves together, 
And pledge their lives w^hate'er it be, 

To protect one another. 

Now forty states, or more or less, 
Stand bound, stand free united. 

When foes may dare one to oppress, 
To rid the same we 're plighted. 



172 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

Dissolve! why this unwritten law 
Binds us happy, makes us free, 

Children, lovers not of war, 
Children, friends of liberty. 

Dissolve ! why that imperils home, 
Our wealth, our graves, our glory, 

Our children will in truth see come 
A foe to rend their story. 

The European map will never 
Guide the loving patriot's breast. 

For European rule did sever 
Every hope of Christian rest. 

Dissolve the Union ! why the boys 
And all the girls are trying 

To make their nation, so their joys 
Will brighten stead of dying. 

Dissolve the Union ! wicked thought ! 

Insane is such believing. 
Destroy the toil a century wrought. 

The thought sets all a-giieving ! 

The fathers they are struggling hard 
To make their children cherish 

The glorious name we hold abroad. 
To never let it perish. 

The children with contented gaze 
Look on the school books pleasing, 



THE UNION MUST NOT DISSOLVE. 173 

And bound each commonwealth with praise, 
And learn them without teasing. 

Strength, the glory of all men, 

The glory of a nation, 
And long as reason is our gem, 

We '11 guard the constitution. 

The school-boys on their maps now ponder 
O'er the mountains, streams, and lakes, 

Then Alaska way up yonder 

Feels sometime 'twill be a state. 

Yes ! each breast is silent lifting. 

Silent loving, silent knowing 
That their country is still drifting 

Onward, upward, ever going. 

And each father, mother, brother, 

Sister, and of them who come 
Proudly says, we '11 hold together. 

And have one united home, 

Have a home where armies never 

Can swoop down and make us slaves. 

Yes, we are trying and we '11 ever 
Be a nation strong and brave. 



174 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



NATIONAL ELECTION DAY. 

HOW vast the labor, and how great 
When this proud Nation pours, 
Her suffrage for a magistrate, 
. To rule from shore to shore. 

How vast the day's work is, when done, 

In every point of view ! 
But let us first behold the ones 

Who all the business do ! 

When thirty million men prepare 
Themselves to vote that day. 

Each true heart hoping they will wear 
The plumage of the fray. 

Look on the broad Atlantic shore, 

A hundred cities go ; 
And on the vast interior, more 

Than twelve times this can show^ 

The gulf, the lakes, the western deep. 

The proud Pacific bounds, 
A million homes where mountains sleep 

Upon their duty found. 

A thousand rivers and their banks. 

Rejoicing in the day ; 
Ten thousand valleys join the ranks. 

Ten thousand hills obey. 



THE AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE. 175 

And all the realm becomes astir, 

When thirty millions move, 
The highest gift on him confer ; 

Let Christendom approve. 

And of our day's work see the power, 

Entrusted to the hand 
Who happily may gain the hour, 

Their country to command. 

No king beyond the seas can boast 

Of such a realm as ours; 
From tropic waves to arctic coast, 

From snow to land of flowers. 

And all the realm with one intent. 

And on one day they make, 
Some citizen a president. 

To rule four years its fate. 



THE AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE. 

MAY I compare this great event 
Unto an awful storm and blow. 
That swept with force the continent, 
More than a hundred years ago ! 

It overturned, as were the trees 
That were of an exotic birth, 

No plant that 's set by king's decrees, 
Could flourish then and grow to worth. 



176 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

All laws, all rule from loyal hands, 
Were doomed at certain time to go ; 

The storm had pierced the fertile land, 
And struck the tender roots below. 

When sprouts began to green again. 

They sprung from where freedom had sown 

Our tears and blood, their earliest rain. 
Our lives we paid for them our own. 

For this example, too, the world 

Thinks on what slippery ground it stood. 

The power of kings' might instant hurled 
It ever from the brave and good. 

But when we asked the mother throne. 
For independence and for power. 

To be dissolved and stand alone. 
She met us in the battle's hour. 

Three mighty kings fell on that throne 
Which turned a favor to our fate, 

And soon we wrenched this land, our own. 
From off the battle-fields so great. 

These kings that gave us hope and strength. 
May thought some day to see us fall ; 

They thought rebellion had its length. 
And they would then our land enthral. 

How little did they seem to know, 
On what foundations we should build 



THE AX, PLOW, AND SPADE. 177 

The cause they 'd crushed out years ago 
Was the same cause our hearts now filled. 

That cause was freedom of the mind, 
To speak and act for other's weal ; 

And have a land where all mankind, 
Should in the common interest feel. 

Their theme worked well ; may God long bless 

The fathers of our nation great, 
For by their wisdom, blessedness 

Has come to mortal's low estate. 



THE AX, PLOW, AND SPADE. 

I write of the ax, plow, and spade, 
Their labors we cannot confine. 
We know our great nation they made 
And long with the nation will shine. 

Two centuries ago we decreed 
The forest must fall, and the vale 

Be filled with the maise and the seed. 
With the scent of the fruit on the gale. 

The hills where the giants of old 

Have waved in their grandeur so strong 

Did fall, and the cities behold 
The ax and its labors so long. 



178 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

While the plow, the king of the fields, 
No thought can encompass its worth, 

It's linked to the joys that it yields 
The same as the sun to the earth. 

The spade we now rally around 
For science has made it its base. 

And with laurels of wealth it is crowned. 
Our nation its labor has graced. 

Then shout for the ax, plow, and spade, 
Combined make us happy and free. 

We plow where the use of the blade 
Has cut down the old forest tree. 

Then hail to the ax, spade, and plow, 
We cannot express, but can try 

To praise them if reason allow. 

Our bounties their use does supply. 

Then hail to the plow, spade, and ax, 
On their worth the nation now stands. 

When our grip from their handles relax. 
We must fade like mist from the land. 



MY MOTHER'S ROBIN. 

MY mother's robin sings once more 
Upon the mulberry by my door, 
As he has done in years before 
When life was sweet. 



AfV MOTHER'S ROBIN. 179 

When not a sigh of grief was o'er, 
Or round my feet. 

The evening sky his voice would fill, 
The morning hush would hear him still, 
Proclaiming his sweet notes until 

The sun was high ; 
Again he comes with joy and will 

Till leaves shall die. 

She used to call me when he sung 
To listen till our cares would come, 
For music flowed from off his tongue 

So rich and deep. 
That fairly all surrounding rung 

With joy complete. 

He'd sing when dawn o 'erspread the skies, 
He sang to bid morning rise. 
He sang to close our weary eyes 

To needful rest ; 
How sad when this loved herald flies 

For other's guest. 

Now there's no mother ear to greet 
His little song so loud and sweet. 
No one to watch his tender feet 

Upon the lawn. 
He sings, but all seems incomplete 

At eve and morn. 



i8o POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

Near twenty years of life now fled 
Have seen this bosom cast with red 
Pouring his song when spring had spread 

His map of green, 
And laughing in the skies o 'erhead, 

With smiles serene. 

May long he come to hail the day, 
And sing to greet the sunset's ray. 
At noontide he to bask and play, 

And roam the fields, 
And watch the sunny hours away. 

Till day shall yield. 

When Nature's chilly voice proclaims 

For him to quit the autumn plains 

And soar where warmer sunshine reigns. 

And groves to charm. 
May he return to me again 

As spring comes warm. 



THE WHIP-POOR-WILL. 

THE whip-poor-will, a harmless bird, 
With harp of God's own make, 
Began to play as evening fell ; 
And every echo of the dell 
Immediately did wake. 

The song so rich, so sweet and gay. 
All nature seemed to hear ; 



THE IVHIP-FOOR- J! VLL. 



The branches with the leaf half grown, 
The roses with the bud half blown 
In silence seemed to cheer. 

The moon's delightful shadows fell 

Across the field of song, 
Nowhere but what the night was gay. 
Nowhere but what his precious lay 

Was ringing loud and strong. 

The hills where once primeval woods 

The weary steps trod there, 
How beautiful it was to walk, 
With jolly friends to laugh and talk, 

But yet there was a care. 

The silent voices of the breast 

Invoked a prayer for Him 
Whose little bird had made the night 
The greatest source of our delight, 

To hear him sweetly sing. 

The cares which morrow's sun might bring 
Weighed light within the scale ; 

For who could slumber when a song 

So rich, melodious, and long 
Was filling fields and vale ! 

But bowing to superior laws 

We must the night give in. 
And leave the little bird in praise. 
While my poor heart a prayer doth raise 

To God who made him sins:. 



1 82 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



BENJAMIN HARRISON, iS86. 

THE name of Harrison sounds well, 
It 's music in the ear, 
Its echo rolls through every dell. 
On every hill we hear 
His glorious name. 

We 've heard of his ancestral stock. 
In days when we were small, 

His grandsire helped the world to shock 
In Independence Hall, 
So great in fame. 

That deed so deep, sublime, and grand 

No pen its import tell, 
No tongue can voice the happy land 

On which its influence fell, 
Of untold worth. 

In time a son was born to him. 

No royal pomp attends, 
But grew to be more than a king ; 

For freemen found him friend 
From earliest birth. 

Again the glorious name of old 

Burst like a meteor's light 
Through winter's skies so dark and cold, 

To cheer the rayless night 
Till more shall rise. 



AUTUMN^ WINDS. 183 

Beneath the rosy fingered arch, 

On that November day, 
New England millions took the march, 
As freemen for the fray. 
With shouts and cries. 

The stanch old west beheld the dawn 

With molten flags displayed, 
The cold Nevada's snow-capped horns 

Laughed 'neath the morning shade, 
For proud were they. 

And as the sweet Pacific dells 

Were beaming with the light. 
Those yoemen rang the Cleveland knells 

Until they heard the fight 
Had won the day. 



AUTUMN WINDS. 

THE chilly breath of autumn bears 
A thousand deaths an hour, 
To all the fields in beauty fair 

In verdure and in flowers ; 
The sparrow sits on naked limb 
And tries his summer song to sing 
In tune once more. 

Oh, could he see the vernal feet 
Of spring, fair maiden, come, 



1 84 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

How would this Utile songster greet, 

For she would cheer his home. 
A thousand smiles would fall around 
And green once more would be the ground 
In vernal store. 

But winter's icy hand will shake 

Its scepter in the sky, 
And all the charms of summer break 

That partly round us lie. 
Soon the white storm will fill the cloud, 
And all the prospect deeply shroud 
With saddest gloom. 

When we behold the withered leaf 

Fall from its fruitless bough, 
The bough may moan o'er winter's grief. 

But springtime will endow 
It with a new green robe of tlowers 
And leaves to charm the sylvan bowers, 
And joy untomb. 

Not so when mortal loved ones go. 

The roses of our hearth ; 
They leave through annual rounds the woe 

That blurs the joys of earth. 
Spring will return, but mother dear 
Will never come my home to cheer, — 
Can it be so ? 

A thousand homes now bear the grief 
That is my lot to share ; 



THE PLANET SATURN. 185 

Oh, could she as the vernal leaf 

Come forth in springtime's air ! 
How would we all rejoice again 
With smiles as doth great nature's plain, 
And all below. 

But yet we know there is a land 

Where seasons never harm, 
And grief can never touch that band 

Nor damp a heavenly charm. 
There is the place to look for those 
Whose lives did constantly disclose 
The truths divine. 



THE PLANET SATURN. 

THOU little star in cloudland blue, 
Now shining on my path of snow, 
What hands gave thee thy silver hue 
Of such unchanging brightness glow ! 

We read of thee in ages past, 

When ancients watched thy nightly rounds, 
And yet with all thy years so vast 

Are still with beaming beauty crowned. 

Around thee constellations roll 

*0f mortal star-built form with shield, 

As if to guard thy mighty soul 
Across the vast ethereal field. 

•Constellation of Orion. 



1 86 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

" When God ordained us," said the star, 

" He gave us as a heritage. 
His life, his brightness, and his law. 

To shine for man through every age ; 

"One grand pulsation of his arm 
Threw us afar in realms to be 

His footlights and away from harm 
And neighbors to eternity ; 

" And when he speaks our light will shut. 
For all the worlds will him obey, 

And he in glory then will set 
And give to you eternal day." 



GRANT'S BURIAL HONORED BY HIS FOE. 

WHEN Johnston and Buckner stood by the 
tomb. 
Where the nation's great hero was laid, 
The nation was there, and deep was the gloom. 
For the country like children was made. 
While Sherman and Sheridan stood 
In tears at the sepulchre door, 
The four rolled the casket in place. 
Their strength all united did grace 
The deep, silent scene of Columbia in grief. 

The men who had met with armies of power 
In the dreadful contentions of strife^ 



LIBERTY'S VISIT. 187 

Had met then in grief the country's sad hour, 
O'er their hero's departure from life, 
The sorrow of a people free. 
Then stood united and in tears, 
The world was bowed in silence great, 
O'er him so vast in war and state, 
For all mankind could truly hail him chief. 



LIBERTY'S VISIT TO THE FAMILY OF 
NATIONS. 

WHEN war upon her realm had ceased,^ 
And victory rung his silver knell, 
She took her glorious wand of peace, 
To visit where the nations dwell. 

She knew their mighty gates were strong, 
The turrets, too, were manned with power,. 

Oft had she passed them in days gone. 
Reproved, dishonored, every hour, 

But, earnest to see if her name, 

Were in the circle far away, 
Where spirits of the world's domains. 

Hold festal rites and regal sway. 

The summer had its beauty spread. 

O'er her thirteen young commonwealths ; 
Each one a maiden sweet and glad, 
. Each one with girlish blooming health. 



1 88 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

And when the da)', with lance of gold 
Had pierced the orient skies so dark, 

And all the realm, with day, beholds, 
Freedom takes her immortal start. 

The hills of Vernon rich with bowers, 

The rivers, rolling gently by 
With bank decked in a wealth of flowers, 

Columbia's goddess mounts the sky. 

And as she cuts the morning gale, 
A plume would drop in every clime. 

And realms her glorious flight would hail, 
And greet her course so high, sublime. 

She lifts with grace when worlds are dim, 
And fading in her flight away, 

She trusts upon her matchless wing, 
To soar where countless planets lay. 

When, lo ! she sees the deep green sphere. 
Rising with grandeur and with grace ; 

And sees her starry folds so dear, 
Flaunt in their high appointed place. 

There nations sit in conclave grand. 
There hangs the shield of ages past. 

There was her own, with every land 
For more to come, the walls were vast. 

•Gently beyond the battlements. 

She folds her wearied wings to rest ; 



LIBERTY'S VISIT. 189 

While spirits of the continents, 
Hail her as one divinely blest. 

In grandeur there sat hoary Time 

With eyes undinimed by centuries long ; 

With form gigantic and in prime, 
And with the nation 's holding song. 

Some were of stature short, but fair ; 

Some were with mighty years bent down ; 
While others, deep with grief and care, 

\\'earing a pagan star and crown. 

All for her young and gracious hand, 
Reach out to grasp for honor's sake ; 

For by her presence all felt grand, 

To hail such handsome nymph of state. 

She bowed to Time, whose hand was law ; 

And thus addressing him she spoke : 
'' Father, my long sad years of war 

Have brought me empire, fame, and hope. 

'•And may I so arrange with state. 

To ever be beloved and good ; 
For none can have the name of great, 

Unless always with virtues stood ? 

"This sceptre is no grace to me, 

Unless it 's for defence and life ; 
Our object is, get rich, be free, 

And try to avoid all chance of strife. 



I90 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

"And as I gaze these ancient halls, 

Long of renown, of thoughts less grand, 

May I inspire some joy for all, 

Some word for these that have command ! 

" For those that hold the helm of state 
Must not be tyrants, nor be slaves ; 

But steer for the most noble fate. 
And try the multitude to save. 

" For God demands from those in trust, 
To be like Him in all their ways ; 

For at our hands He will and must 
Condemn us or reward with praise. 

"And if we sin with knowledge given. 
How can our nation's glory stand ? 

For nation's sins, in sight of heaven, 
Must sure be punished by His hand. 

" My shield, my badge, my country's pride, 
That find their place on yonder wall, 

God will remove when truth has died 
And honors from our nation fall." 

Sweet Liberty sits down, and Time, 

With reverence for his guest, bends low ; 

Whose age can span the stars that shine, 
And saw the heavenly system grow. 

" Dear Madam, it 's with deepest joy 
That I o'er this conclave command ; 



LIBERTY'S VISIT. 191 

That I may, to your sweet employ, 
Offer my counsels and my hand. 

" It 's not for me to judge in haste, 

Nor tread once on your shield and crown ; 

But it 's a sorrow and a waste 

For me to see empires pulled down. 

" I 've long been wearied to behold 
Vast nations loose their grip and fall ; 

For 't is those fatal sins of old 

So oft have ravished these my walls. 

"And as you by experience stand, 

Forget not here how others fell ; 
For when the sceptre from thy hand 

Is gone, the world may bid farewell. 

" For God and all his minor powers 

Know your foundations and how built; 

He knows your wearied, lonesome hours, 
The nights of pain, the carnage spilt. 

*• Your wisdom of unrivaled grace 

Suit well this pleasant home and scene. 

And will great God, with kindly face. 
Look on your principle supreme ! " 

Young Liberty must now return. 

And with a gracious bow to all, 
She leaves the court with less to learn 

And more to know by her short call. 



192 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

And swift as streaks of morning light 
She glides the firmaments at will, 

And long before the starry night 
She folds her wing on Bunker Hill. 



THE BURIAL OF GRANT, AUGUST 8, 1885. 

ICx\NNOT forget that long summer day 
When I, reflective, sat alone, and heard 
The mighty cannon thundering far away. 

Whose many voices our New England stirred. 

I '11 ne'er forget that day, and millions more 
Remember, too, that solemn day, like me. 

As our great nation wept from shore to shore 
O'er the last rites of him that fought us free. 

The Nation's greatness was around his tomb, 
A hundred cities, draped in mourning, wept, 

A million hearths, like mine, were hushed in gloom, 
A million homes heard prayer, and men unslept. 

For each sad bosom knew his deeds too well ; 

The triumph of his arms had made them great. 
And all there is within our souls must tell. 

And rank him second both in war and state. 

And so as life glides down its changeful banks, 
Or as the generation silently decays. 

We ne'er forget the burial of our Grant, 

Whom years to come will never cease to praise. 



THE NATIONAL FLOWER. 



193 



THE NATIONAL FLOWER. 

WHEN the springtime glads the hillside 
And the birds begin to sing, 
Under leaves all crisped and withered 

Little purple buds begin 
To rejoice beneath the sunbeam, 

To make glad the naked bower, — 
Little rugged, sweet arbutus. 
Destined for the nation's flower. 

\Miat a record has thy story 

\\'hen our nation's life began. 
Early on that sacred morning, 

When our fathers bravely ran, 
'Neath their feet thy little blossom 

Greeted them at daybreak's hour; — 
Yes, a thousand mouths would answer. 

This we call the nation's flower. 

When they fell on that green meadow, 

On the plains of Lexington, 
Did their carnage give thy beauty 

As it o'er thy petals run >. 
Or did morning hues and sunset 

Paint thy blossom in that hour, 
Knowing that the sons of freedom 

Would install thee nation's flower? 

Yes, the thousand eyes beheld thee 

Twining 'round their swords and guns ; 



194 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

Eagles made those wreaths of glory, 
For those first fell, valorous sons 

Plucked thy tender blooms from mosses, 
From the dry leaves of the bower. 

From the hills of sweet New England, 
For 'twas then the nation's flower. 

If the battle-fields could thunder, 

If the dead could rise to tell. 
If old ocean's brave, that slumber. 

Could one mighty anthem swell. 
All would shout for sweet arbutus 

With an universal power; 
Liberty would smile to sanction 

It to be the nation's flower. 



OUR BEST MEN. 

SOME of our great are emblem of the stream 
Which takes its rise in the remote unseen, 
And struggles onward gathering every hour 
In depth and volume and in current power. 
Or plunging o'er the rocky clifif until 
The voiceless wood does with its thunder fill. 
Thence flowing onward growing day by day 
Until its vastness seems the world to sway. 

I mean that man is born of low decree, 
In boyhood days he 's small, he cannot see 



OUR BEST MEN. 195 

Much import of a life, but living on 
He finds a channel guiding him along, 
Until the vastness of his power he feels 
How many small things larger ones reveal. 

Our best of men were once a rivulet gay. 
Young, pure in life, and frolicsome in play. 
Untaught to know as they pass down the vale 
What springs of influence would unite to hail. 
And bear them company the woods to cheer 
Their onward march to something more sincere. 

No man that 's born was ever born as great 
As he will be some fifty years more late. 
And whomsoever is born of full force 
I would prefer to keep from out his course, 
Nor trust my fate upon such reckless waves. 
For treacherous might the channel be to save. 

Man like the stream must first be small then grow 
And widen out, till the proportions show 
That such a life from humbleness has come 
Must humbly meet eternity's vast main. 

Man is a stream in every sense and truth, 

One in old age, and one in early youth, 

Tho' grown to be a river and a power 

From springs that meet him every day and hour. 

All men start well, but somehow fate, or chance. 
Or some tree falls to clog up with its branch. 
While others seem to push the leaves away 
And flow on gently, strengthening ever}' day. 



196 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

Man should begin his life first very small, 

Much like the stream, round rocks and hillocks 

crawl. 
And be obedient to the good that guides, 
As narrow banks may push the little tide. 
Yet ever laughing o'er its rocky bed 
Nor cares at night to rest its joyful head. 
But talking, walking, singing, onward go, 
Gaining new power till broader manhood show. 



THE INDIAN'S RETURN TO HIS BIRTH- 
PLACE. 

BENEATH an aged oak 
When morning fields were gray, 
They saw an Indian stand 
With unstrung bow in hand. 
Seeming in spirit broke. 

The children hustle down, 
They crowd the outside door, 
From house to house they spy, 
The people all ask why 
The Indian came to town. 

For long the time had been 
Since these old forest lords 
Had trod those happy vales. 
Or scanned those hills and dales. 
Lone: homes of other men. 



THE INDIAN'S RETURN. 197 

But grandpa said, '' Be still ; 
I '11 go and see the man, 
For I remember well. 
And can the story tell 
When they lived on the hill." 

The Indian said: " These scenes 
Look very natural now. 
I left them when a boy ; 
To hunt was my employ. 
And fish upon the stream. 

But you white men had come 
And bought our lands away ; 
Our king said we must go ; 
It filled my soul with woe, 
My boyish heart with pain. 

My father took the lead. 
My mother followed on, 
We children trudged behind 
Upon the paths that wind. 
And sick were we indeed. 

The years have rolled away ; 
I 've promised to return 
And look once more upon 
The spot where I was born, 
And did in childhood play. 

'This hillside was my home. 
The hearthstone it is gone, 



198 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

The wilderness is dead, 
The vales with corn instead, 
New scenes indeed have come. 

" But yet the distant sea, 
The sand bank, and the pond, 
The old gray rocks I 've climbed 
In summer and springtime, 
Appear most dear to me. 

"The white man's hand cannot 
Disturb these old way-marks ; 
They may up-turn the soil, 
Hew down the wood by toil, 
But time these scenes have got. 

" I never shall come more. 
My day is almost past. 
My arm once strong is weak, 
My step is incomplete, 
My vision not of yore. 

" I love these rugged scenes 
My childhood spent among; 
But I shall look no more 
Upon the fields and shore, 
The hillside and the stream. 

*' They 're homes of other men, 
I cannot hunt there now, 
I 'm like this aged oak. 
With limbs distort and broke 
To never grow again," 



ADDRESS TO EGYPTIAN OBELISK. 199 

Grief rends his stony heart, 
Tears roll upon his cheek, 
His bow and arrow broke, 
He left them by the oak, 
With sorrow did depart. 



AN ADDRESS TO THE EGYPTIAN OBE- 
LISK ERECTED IN CENTRAL PARK, 
NEW YORK. 

COLUMBIAN'S shore, proud relic, hails 
Thy ancient presence to her stand ; 
She thanks old ocean and her gales 
For bearing thee from foreign land. 

That thy gigantic brow might rise 

Amid a realm of cities round. 
Whose awful summit from the skies 

Might watch again the peopled ground. 

We trace along the stream of time, 

Where its deep freighted waves have passed ; 
Tho' flowing through another clime 

We stand with awe o'er visions vast. 

To think when first thy granite crest 

O'erlooked the young vales then of earth, 

They were the first where man was blest, 
And first where art had sprung to birth. 



POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



Is not thy grandeur then of fame 

The sweetest in our thoughts enrolled ; 

And when we scan thy honored reign 
The noblest deeds of earth unfold, 

Could age's muse have been enthroned 

Upon thy mossy brow to pen, 
Oh, what a record would have owned 

For the enduring use of men. 

Thy mammoth form was borne from where 
The rocks that Syene mountains grace, 

Then floated down the Nile with care 
And rose upon thy destined place. 

Full sixteen centuries did'st thou stand 
Before the temple's golden blaze, 

When thou wast borne to other lands 
To give to other deeds thy praise. 

And then some nineteen centuries more 
Thou stoodst to greet great Caesar's fame. 

Whose arms had conquered every shore 
That girds the most remotest main. 

Now here thou standst amid the free 
On western shores so lately known, 

Sprung up beyond a trackless sea 
And to the highest glory grown. 

Now watch for us, thou mighty spire. 

O'er realms where vision holds command, 



ADDRESS TO EGYPTIAN OBELISK. 

Until the last pulsation tire, 
And all returns to desert sand. 

Oh, couldst thou speak ! what worlds of love 
Would from thy granite lips reveal. 

What streams of hidden greatness pour, 
Now evermore to man concealed. 

Thou once hast seen Sesostrus' car, 

Drawn by his conquered kings of earth. 

Whose nations he had bled in war, 

Once famed for honor, power, and worth. 

Thou sawst his kingdom crumble down 
Like sandhills in the whirlwind's power ; 

And many another as bright crown 

Wilt, like the tenderest summer flower. 

Thou, too, hast seen the Nile's dark wave. 
Thronged with the fieet of many a king. 

And history has forgot the brave. 

And bards cannot their triumphs sing. 

And oftentimes around thy base 

Has war's red chariot rolled with speed : 

And every century kings would grace 
Thy ancient realm with mighty deeds. 

Oh, what a change the years have seen. 
Since thy stupendous form was raised ; 

The valleys and the plains then green, 
And thriving nations gave thee praise. 



POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



Thou 'st watched the generations die ; 

Thou 'st watched the season's endless birth, 
Until around thee deserts lie, 

And man and cities bowed to earth. 

And Time's unconquered arm had swung 
His hoary sceptre o'er thy fields. 

All but thy own strong life succumb, 
That human genius had revealed. 

And now again in western worlds, 

Thy granite structure reared once more, 

To watch Time, as his arrows hurl. 
Along our grand Columbia shore. 

Thy mossy foot now treads our lawn. 
By times the morning dews are dry ; 

But Hope and Progress fill the morn. 
And Peace enshrouds the purple sky. 

She sits enthroned on hills of gold. 
Round whose foundation is the dust 

Of heroes, whom our sphere controlled, 
For God in judgment said they must. 

And Freedom, too, is round thy base, 
Sounding her harp of heavenly strain ; 

And all the far-off human race 
Rejoices in her precious name. 

Now guard us, grand old shaft of fame, 
Thou 'It find us but a nation young, 



THE WONDERS UE ETNA. 203 

A century's smile is on our plains, 
Our future is by bards unsung. 

Now watch us till the years shall turn 

Our fertile fields to desert sands, 
The fate of eastern shores to learn, 

Is left at thy supreme command. 

And when our last sad morn appears, 
And freedom's shrine be torn away, 

Bend down, and from our land in tears, 
Seal it upon thy brow to stay. 

There will the loyal eagles light, 

With wreaths of ever-blooming flowers, 

With thee, companion of the night. 
Through all eternity's sad hours. 

Then watch us as thou watched of yore. 

The fate of other lands to see. 
Watch these sweet, peaceful, sunny shores, 

The bannered shores of liberty. 



THE WONDERS OF ETNA. 

WITH all the wonders of that Hand 
Which made the plains, the hill, and shore: 
In all His works may Etna stand 
Supreme, unrivalled evermore. 



POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



These awful piles of earth that rise 

Burning in cloud-land's distant heights, 

With girdling zones ascend the skies 
Of deserts, flowers, and winters white. 

Around its summit glaciers shine, 

While torrid flame burns in the storm ; 

Untrod, unsought, high, and sublime. 
The battling elements keep on. 

Warm streams roll down the mountain side. 

Reviving nature's thirsty soul. 
As if eternal hands preside 

To make the scene complete and whole. 

Grand and alone, eternal stands 
Upon its wave-girt pillars deep ; 

Its awful thundering shakes the strand ; 
Its awful flame in cloud-land keep. 

This pile of rock and flame so vast, 
Great watch tower of Sicilian clime; 

Long will our wonderment be cast 
Upon its awfulness sublime ! 



THE OLD SHIP CONSTITUTION. 

THE old Constitution, the ship of our glory, 
So long in defense of the nation has been. 
We cannot forget her, so sweet in the story. 

Whose cannon have wrought such victory for men. 



STRAND/NG OF THE KEARSARGE. 205 

We cannot remember the days of her worth ; 

But her battles yet live on the page of the free, 
The blood on her decks is the pride of the earth. 

The fame of this warship the pride of the sea. 

Her najne to New England is sweet as the rose, 
She's dear to the South for her battles to save. 

The new sovereign West her pride has disclosed 
For the ship of the battle, the ship of the wave. 

Ten thousand new voices now ring the broad nation 
To save the old vessel from wreckage once more. 

Her name and her fame are in part a salvation. 
While Liberty honors from shore unto shore. 

Raise high o'er the vessel the stripes and the stars 
Which she bore from the battles in days that are 
gone ; 

Keep her long a memento, a gem of the wars, 
A relic that always our country will 'dorn. 



THE STRANDING OF THE KEARSARGE. 

On Roncadok Reef, in the Cariuhean Sea, Two Hun- 
dred AND Fifty Miles from Panama. She Sunk 
THE Alabama Near Cherbourg, France, Sunday, 
June 19, 1864. 

THE mighty warship, Kearsarge great. 
In naval war so sweetly sung. 
When o'er the land the battle cloud 
Was lowering down with voices loud 
Of treason, death, and war. 



2o6 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

Too well the Union's loving heart 
Remembers those eventful days, 
To once forget the mortal foe 
She met and conquered with a blow 
On ocean's wastes afar. 

Her valor then rang round the globe, 

Her deed the many kingdoms praised, 
Her glory was the nation's boon. 
Her strength dispelled the thickening gloom 
That hung above the seas. 

Warship of honor and renown, 

A jewel in the naval host ; 
The millions who have gone before. 
The millions now on Freedom's shore, 

Her victories have pleased. 

The unborn millions yet will learn 

The story of her battle deeds, 
And sweetly may her glorious fame 
Link with the everlasting chain 

That 'round the mighty weav'es. 

She fell not in the strife's red hour; 

She felt the right hand of no foe, 
No tempest doomed her mournful fate, 
But like the valiant and the great 

She falls, but not to die. 



THE RIVERS OF NARRAGANSETT. 207 



THE RIVERS OF NARRAGANSETT. 

FIRST among these little rivers 
That are better known in fame, 
Is the placid Pettaquamscutt, 
Calmly flowing to the main. 

Though no wheels it turns, yet ever 
Will it bring up legends* true, 

That which time will fail to sever 
Of the lore it passes through. 

In the days when British order 
Hung as chain from sea to shore, 

There upon its peaceful border 
Sprang a romance sad of yore. 

Oft has this repeated story 

Been the joy of some to tell, 
And from it remains a glory 

For the banks where it befell. 

But toward its fountains pearly, 

Mat-ta-tux-et is its name, 
Destined, too, in times so early 

To command a wreath in fame. 

Next the Sau-ga-tuc-ket proudly 
Gives a million wheels their force. 

And its cataract then loudly 

Sings its requiem long and hoarse. 

♦Beautiful Hannah Robinson. 



2o8 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

And Chip-pu-xet from the valley 
Of the woodland flows along, 

And but little notice rallies 
To assume a name and song. 

On it flows through swamp and meadow 
Till it finds Lake Worden's shore, 

Then the Charles 'neath cedar shadows 
Drains the lake without a roar. 

The Shick-a-sheen, or Misk-i an-za. 
Winds along through wood and plain, 

Doing little deeds of duty. 

Adding something to our fame. 

The Ash-a-way and Tom-a quay 
Skim their mossy beds with glee, 

The Beaver and the Es-qua-paug 
And Wood river roll as free. 

Eich of them, a thousand shuttles 
Or ten thousand spindles turn, 

Till the Paw-ca-tuck's deep water 
Bears them down to ocean stern, 

Whose great name is also ancient, 
Oft dividing towns and states. 

Flows this mighty stream with patience 
In its winding bed so great. 

Narragansett brooks and rivers, 

Useful as they flow along. 
Of our wealth full half the giver, 

Mighty agents deep and strong. 



SAMUEL T. PERRY. 209 

SAMUEL T. PERRY. 

Killed at the 1!attle of the Wilderness, May 12, 1864. 

LONG shall I remember this sad story, 
The saddest, too, of all my early life, 
It was a deed to help our nation's glory, 

When it was struggling on red fields of strife. 

My schoolmate, Sam, had gone to war that morn- 
ing, 
The second time, while all the night before 
His father watched him till the sky was dawning 
And then said, " Sam, the clock has now struck 
four.'' 

He sprang from off the lounge and bade farewell 
To father, mother, and they wept that morn ; 

But he so strong would not emotions tell, 
And soon from dear ones was forever gone. 

His mother filled with grief came to our house 
And said, "Well, Dorcas, Sam has gone to war; 

Poor child, I feel so bad for him, why, Rowse, 
I loved that boy too well to die in war," 

And broke down deep in tears. My father stern 

As man need be, went out into the barn. 
And cried there like a boy. My mother, too, did 
learn 
The awfulness of loved ones torn from loving 
arms. 



POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



I, young in years, to grief a stranger too, 
Escaped the room, and hid myself away, 

Until those solemn hours of morning flew. 

And April's sun had reached its height of day 

Six weeks had gone, when awful tidings came 
That Sam had fallen on Appomattox field, 

The last great struggle on the battle plain 
When mad Secession finally did yield. 

She came again and said, " Poor Sam is gone. 
They say." My parents to console her grief 

Said that before another day be born 

Some better news. " But no, it 's my belief, 

" For 't was but yesterday I sat alone 

And heard a sound fall on the chamber floor. 

Then something said, ' There, Sam is gone. 
He 's dead, and I shall never see him more.' ' 

Days passed away ; but grief with her had torn 
Her brightest hopes away, and age, withal, 

Came step by step, until her mind had worn. 

And left a mental wreck o'er her proud soldier's 
fall. 

His home was one, while thousands, thousands 
more 
Shared the same fate of boys and brothers dead. 
Whose "graves unknown" now rest on Southern 
shore, 
And for humanity's great cause had bled. 



ROWLAND G. HAZARD. 



Years sweep along, and soon we all shall be 
In the cold realm of unrelentless age, 

And then a step out on eternity's dark sea, 
Where deeds we hope will blazon every page. 



ROWLAND G. HAZARD. 

A SOCRATES of men. 
A life of noble deeds, 
A mind enriched with gems, 
A country's friend in need. 

He turned when Sumter's gun 
Alarmed the Christian world. 

For something must be done. 
Or the old flag be furled. 

His years for battle past, 

But yet his mind was strong ; 

He feared no ocean blast. 
To aid the Union on. 

Grand thoughts were all his life. 
His record fully made ; 

Bright sunset o'er the strife 
Of his long pilgrimage. 

His age almost could span 
His glorious nation's years ; 

Think when his life began, 
A land like childhood's tears. 



POEMS OF MEW ENGLAND. 



Since those young years of pain 
What wondrous changes wrought. 

It seems as if the brain 

Of genius, man had bought. 

These mighty works of art 

All come within his days, 
And he appeared a part 

Of them, and of their ways. 

His mind matured with age. 

The firmaments his field ; 
Each sphere for him a page. 

Thought's loftiest heights revealed. 



LINCOLN LEAVING ILLINOIS. 

SECESSION flag was almost swung. 
Her note of battle almost rung. 
The enemy was great; 
The old thirteen are falling off, 
The words of Washington they scoff, 
When Lincoln left the state. 

He 'd been called to the White House chair, 
His throbbing nation's fate to care, 

And be his nation's friend. 
Some thought his country's life was past. 
And it must go before the blast. 

For who could it defend ? 



LINCOLN LEAVING ILLINOIS. 213 

Secession said he should not take 
His oath to be the first of state ; 

For they should bar the way ; 
But Lincoln left his state the same, 
Trusting in the Almighty name 

That right should win the day; 

And, fearless, took his precious life 
Within his hand and dared the strife. 

For deep was treason's plan, 
And dreadful was his country's hour. 
And mighty was the slavery power, 

No eye but God could scan. 

It was not that old prairie team, 

But 't was the steed of steel and steam 

That bore him to his post. 
In poverty he sought the state. 
He proved to be the good and great 

And sovereign of the host. 

Unknown he came, beloved he went, 
To guide the helm of government 

Through war's tremendous storm. 
They knew him not, but found him out 
To be the loyal, firm, and stout, 

A leader built and born. 

His old white prairie team is done. 
And hushed forever slavery's gun, 



214 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

But long his memory be. 

Ages shall pass, but ever bright 

Will be the deeds he wrought for right, 

Making his country free. 



JOHN BRIGHT. 

LET Albion blood and Celtic tongue. 
In every clime rejoice ; 
For England's Christian lord becomes 
The praise of English voice. 

For he so long the world has graced 

With thoughts, the brightest to endear his race. 

Not scientific thoughts, that bring 

New laurels to a name ; 
But thoughts beyond the thoughts of kings, 
Thoughts to remove the shame 

Of war's red slaughter, and no more 

To wield its sceptre on enlightened shores. 

All his long life of labor vast. 

With mind matured and strong. 
He spoke, the public to recast, 
And show that war was wrong. 

The last high round to royal minds 
Appears unseen, so helpful to mankind. 

The dreadful curse of war, the rage 
Of savage men, should guide 



NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 



New minds in the arising age, 
To nobler modes decide, 

Than the red havoc of a brother's life 
Most rashly slaughtered in victorious strife. 

To gain some base, provoking end, 

Such not the thoughts of him, 
But spoke to be a nation's friend, 
A man, but more than king. 

His voice is hushed, but lives in hearts, 
And ages yet will his deep truths impart. 

No monument is needed now 

To bear his memory on ; 
No sweeter wreath can grace his brow 
Than he has justly won ; 

No trumpet's blare need sound his praise, 
For in true hearts his monument is raised. 



NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 

WE love thy name, Napoleon, 
For one great deed of state ; 
'T was when thou set at liberty 
Our Lafayette who fought us free 
In battle-fields with Washington. 

Your hand in strife was full of power, 
But yet your soul could see 



2i6 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

The beam of justice and of right, 
So often far beyond the sight 
In manhood's grandest hour. 

And for the honor of a land 
Which lay beyond the sea, 
Thou did'st do much for glory's sake, 
And in return a nation takes 
Pride in thy royal hand. 

Thou knew'st the old, worn patriot's life 
Was lovely everywhere, 
The pride of Western shores to tell. 
Also the pride of France as well, 
Thou found him in his strife. 

And for thy great humanity 
Thou brok'st the prison bar. 
And gave unto the world once more 
The best of every land and shore, — 
A friend of Liberty. 



INDEPENDENCE DAYS. 

HOW nobly and how good the thought 
When we review Colonial days, 
For millions die remembering naught 
To ever give one word of praise. 



IN'DEPENDENCE DAYS. 217 

But now may we reflect back on 

Those rugged days when awful strife 

Was raging at the nation's morn, 
Demanding for their right of life. 

It 's well to look along the line 

Where triumph and defeat did lay, 

Nor bask where Trenton's glories shine, < 
Nor weep o'er Flatbush's dreadful day; 

Nor skip the sanguine fields of strife, 
In haste the Yorktown fame to tell ; 

But stop at Valley Forge, where life 
With half its sorrows had befell. 

One night on guard in that old glen 

Would teach us what we never knew, — 

The cost of war, the grief of men. 
The sorrows of those suffering few. 

Let's stand a moment there, and see 
Where all our liberties were pent ; 

Lo ! we behold that flag so free 
Waving above our hero's tent. 

It now appears as if that sheet 

Were but a danger signal, set 
Upon some ship's mast in the deep ; 

Sunk down, but hope of rising yet. 

We look upon it as the same 

When seas of doubt and peril lay. 



POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



As did around this ship of fame 
In those eventful, early days. 

But presently we see arise 

This sunken ship, with banner high ; 
Her deck is bright with pearls of prize, 

Her flag is lost in glory's sky. 

Besides the pearls are coral wreaths. 

All bursting forth with sweetest flowers : 

From every bud perfume does breathe 
And eagles early seek the bowers. 

And once more do we look again, 

And at the helm is Liberty, 
In health and beauty, and her name 

Is woven in gems too fair to see. 

The spring gales from the landward come 
And brightly fleck her crimson sea. 

Upon which sails our ship of Fame, 
So grandly rose by heaven's decree. 



MY MOTHER'S BIRTHPLACE. 

WHEN summer spreads her vernal hue 
O'er wilderness and field. 
Who cannot praise the glorious view 
Which Nature's powers reveal ! 



A/V MOTHER'S BIRTHPLACE. 219 

More brilliantly these views appear 

In some old, life-long spot, 
Where recollections are sincere. 

And cannot be forgot. 

Down where my mother's birthplace stands 

Seems doubly dear to me ; 
For there her little baby hands 

Played in her girlhood glee. 

Her sweet, young maidenhood, as well. 
Was passed with grace and truth ; 

From infancy she grew to tell 
These places of her youth. 

The brook, the swamp, the pond, and mill. 

Her garden and the wall ; 
The bank, the ditches, and the hill. 

The juniper withal ; 

And far beyond the maple wood 

The ocean sweeps serene, 
While many birds, with voices good. 

Make morn and eve supreme. 

This old, tall house was mother's home, 

Her happiest days spent here; 
With reverence would she always come 

For all its memories dear. 



POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



SPEECH OF LOGAN, A MINGO CHIEF. 

To Lord Dunmore, when Governor of Virginia in 
1774, upon the Great Wrong Received from 
Colonel Cresap, who Murdered His Family in 
His Absence. 

'^ T^ATHER! My heart is sore indeed, 

X Broke down and trampled, like the weed, 

With sorrow's might ; 
Because my wife and children dear 
Were butchered, when I was not near, 

In broad daylight. 

"The pale face did the crime, and lo! 
I am ruined by his dreadful blow. 

Untimely given ; 
And long, dark nights have passed away 
Since that afflicted, dreadful day, 

When all was riven. 

" No man can say but what I fed 
The stranger when he asked for bread, 

And used him well. 
I never closed my wigwam door 
Against the cold, the sick, and poor, 

Such none can tell. 

" Father, during the bloody war, 
When havoc stalked the land afar, 
I worked for peace ; 



SPEECH OF LOGAN. 



I advocated strife was wrong, 
I smiled to see the battle storm 
On the decrease. 

" My love was deep toward your race ; 
I sought them, for they seemed to grace 

The very land. 
Long years have men, when passed my way, 
Pointed my cabin out, to say, 

' There Logan stands.' 

"They liked me, or they so appear; 
At least, they had no cause to fear ; 

I hated wrong. 
I once have helped you drive the foe. 
That I might better manhood show. 

And live more strong. 

" But when the cruel Cresap came, 
And all my joys of earth had slain, 

My heart was brave. 
I slaughtered till revenge no more 
Was in my heart, — deeds red with gore 

My right hand gave. 

" I do love Peace, and do revere 

Her sacred laws ; they 're right, and dear 

Unto my heart ; 
But yet my hope has gone away, — 
It 's in the grave, where loved ones lay. 

Ne'er to depart. 



POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



"While Logan lives, he must live brave 
He'll never turn, his life to save. 

From any foe ; 
For no one mourns my lot to-day, 
They feel not for my heart as they 

Who felt the blow. 

"My blood now runs not in a vein. 
No child to mourn their father slain ; 

But Logan will 
Revere his honor; 'tis his soul, — 
No enemy must dare control 

This heart till still ! 

" Father, when spring returns again 
To green the wilderness and plain. 

No child will come 
To glad the old parental roof, 
No prattling word, no sign as proof. 

To cheer my home. 

" But Logan trusts the spirit land 
Will there reveal my little band 

Of faces sweet. 
I look, I feel the Spirit's breath; 
It comes from shores that feel no death, 

Realm all complete ! 



" I hear his song beside the brook. 
The very stars reveal his look, — 
His voice is power ; 



SITTING BULL. 



I hear him speak amid the storm, 
I see his sabre flash when drawn 
In tempest's hour ! 

" While Logan lives, he must live brave 
He lives his honor but to save, 

As days go by. 
For truth and valor are divine : 
'T was father's heritage : it 's mine 

Until I die ! " 



SITTING BULL. 

THAT mighty warrior, Sitting Bull, 
The Philip of the Western field. 
Had long for war and blood been full, 
Did fall, and all his nation yield. 

He left his gun on winter's snow; 

His plume froze in that life blood brave 
His knife a spoil unto the foe, 

So often caused a sinless grave. 

But now his hostile life breathed out. 

And all his plans of savage years 
Fall to the earth, yet firm and stout 
Was his design, and few his fears. 

But who w'ill live to give him praise .' 
Must desert winds his requiem sing, 



POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



Or hills a lone lost solo raise 

Unto their wild and midnight king? 

Could mercy's sacred hand been taught 
To set her stars within his sphere ; 

Or thread the visions of his thought 
With her enlightening sunbeams dear 

Great would his daring soul have been. 

His deeds may vie with noble birth, 
And teach the bravest of our men 

To know of courage and of worth. 



THE FALL OF WOLFE, SEPTEMBER 13, 

1759- 

SCARCE had the charge of battle made. 
Scarce had old England's brave brigade 
Been led upon the height, 
Before their veteran chief was laid 
Wounded amid the fight. 

Scarce had his mighty conquering gun 
E'er caused the blood of foes to run, 

Or hope for conquest given, 
Before the awful news had come 

That Wolfe's proud breast was riven. 

Scarce had his grand victorious sheet 
Been long unfurled, his men to greet. 
And hail for valor past. 



yOHA' AAVCSSOAT. 225 

When sorrow pales their manly cheek, 
Amid the iron blast. 

The beat of drum, the rush of steeds. 

The falling ranks, the shell-ploughed mead, 

Daunt not the British arms. 
But urges yet, where battle bleeds, 

With courage staunch and warm. 

How goes the strife ? " the hero shouts, 
With death's grip on his bosom stout ! 

His colonel answers, " Well." 
Then death puts his brave life fires out. 

And victory's song doth swell. 



JOHN ERICSSON. 
On the Removal of His Remains to Sweden. 

COLUMBIAN hearts of honor true, 
Regret the thought of parting day, 
With one whose life, and genius too. 
Have made their country great in fray. 

Regret to think that his loved grave 
Will not remain upon our shore. 

But to return o'er ocean wave 

Unto the mother-land which bore. 

But memories sweet will cluster round 
His gallant name, for centuries long, 



2 26 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

As one the naval art did crown, 

And made its mighty strength more strong. 

This proud, unrivalled, giant mind, 
Both spheres a legacy of worth. 

His life, a gift to all mankind. 

Whom genius hailed with joy at birth. 

How can our bannered realm consent 
To bear that dust of heroes fame ! 

Must chiseled rock alone give vent 
To memories of his deed and name ? 

We love his dust, but not because 
He led the strife, but gave us arms 

To sooner crush the cruel war, 

That was fast dealing forth its harms. 

His gallant warship pushed the foe, 

And swept the cloud which hung around 

The bleeding cause, where mortal woe. 
Was with a thousand chains borne down. 

Then, son of northern seas, farewell ! 

Thy royal domain loves you, too. 
They '11 have your tomb, but we can tell 

Thy record best, for such we knew. 

Your mother-land feels reverent now. 
To bend above that dust so great. 

But liberty will deck that brow 

With gems as sweet as kings can make. 



OUR FLAG. 227 



Farewell ! great naval giant, great, 
And sovereign of its science long, 

Both continents regard thj^ fate 
As happy, great, eternal, strong ! 

Our emblem bird, from mountain crag. 
Will soar across his winter skies, 

And set upon that tomb his flag. 

And guard it with his sovereign eyes. 

Yes, wreaths from far-off freedom's strand 
He 'II wear o'er oceans, cold and dark, 

Wove by paternal, loving hands. 
Mementoes of the patriot heart. 

Firm as his royal mountains stand. 
Firm as his ice and rock-bound coast, 

So will his deeds and fame command 
Unshaken reverence of our host. 



OUR FLAG. 

THE stars and stripes mean much, 
When floating in the air ; 
No traitor hand must touch, 
For in those folds is life, 
'T was born in battle strife. 

Those stars that grace the sheet, 
Each represent a state 



228 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

That might a kingdom meet, 
The grand old flag of yore, 
The glory of our shore. 

It waves to-day, more strong, 
With giant greatness stands, 
It must not wave o'er wrong, 
As it has in the past. 
When slavery's power was vast. 

This flag must never lie, 
'T was born with honest blood. 
The mighty Lord on high 
Was in the plan that gave. 
And caused the flag to wave. 

'Twas bought, and giv'n by them 
Who died upon the plain. 
Our stalwart Christian men 
Who loved the cause of right, 
And for it they did fight. 

This flag we love to-day, 
Was with them when they fell, 
It waved above the fray. 
The victors bore it off, 
And woe to them that scoff. 

The time, the day is here, 
Its victories are known ; 
Established, far and near, 



AT GENERAL SHERAfAN'S FUNERAL. 229 

For peace, for truth and right, 
And every good unite. 

Its glory is its own. 
It has no debt to pay, 
From infancy it's grown 
To be the banner sheet 
Of hemisphere and deep. 

It cannot be pulled down. 
The continent says, "No." 
It has an honest crown 
To keep, it is the pride 
Of earth, and heaven beside. 

The flag our strength and joy, 
Our glory and our power. 
It waves not to destroy, 
But makes our homes so free 
That stretch from sea to sea. 



AT GENERAL SHERMAN'S FUNERAL. 

THE Union folds were swinging low, 
His caisson car was moving slow ; 
The dirge of war was heard. 
And millions, with a look downcast. 
Were surging like an ocean vast. 
With hearts the deepest stirred. 



230 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

But o'er the multitude of men 

They heard a bugle strain 
Peal forth the story, o'er again, 

Which lives so bright in fame. 
It was the anthem of the free, 
Of Sherman Marching to the Sea. 

The fortress lit with cannon's flame. 
The navy shook the neighboring main, 

The city realm ajar 
With sword in sheath, with banners torn. 
By veterans of his battles borne. 

Of dark, rebellious war. 
But lo ! above the tumult's din, 

A tender voice, remote, 
Brought in that sainted battle hymn 

Of brilliant, stirring note, — 
That hymn long sainted, yet to be. 
Of Sherman Marching: to the Sea. 



LINCOLN ENTERING RICHMOND AT THE 
CLOSE OF THE WAR, APRIL 4, 1865. 

THE gun in deep secession's hand was hushed, 
The spirit of the stricken South was sore. 
And great, rebellious capital was crushed. 
And torn her gates, and stained her walls with gore. 
When Freedom's blessed son came in, — 
Not as conqueror, nor as king. 
But meek and soft in mind 



LINCOLN ENTERING RICHMOND. 231 

For brother's heart was bleeding there, — 
Their sins had found them, and they fell. 
The gaze of Justice, and of Mercy's tear, 
Was lost to them that day, to either love or fear. 

The sword of mighty Lee, so stern and brave, 
Was sheathed inglorious on Potomac's bank ; 
A few more suns, and that old hero gave 
It in surrender to the immortal Grant; 
His banners, which waved o'er the gates. 
Were down as the decree of Fate, — 
Doomed never more to rise ! 
The broken bugle and the wheel, 
The long-worn musket and the plume. 
Were in the wreckage on the imprisoned streets, 
\Miile sorrow's impress marks whatever objects 
meets. 

Lincoln the great, from boyhood to his death, 
Whom God raised up the Nation's fate to wield, 
And had for four long years, with bated breath, 
Given all the movements, both in state and field; 
And when he knew secession's arms 
Were wearied down with war's alarms, 
His own pure heart was touched. 
But when he saw the enthralldomed race 
Kneel at his feet, with streaming eyes. 
To thank him for their freedom day, this prayer 
Must his heart have upborne, sure the Great God 
was there ! 



232 POEMS OF NEW ENGLAND. 

Ten thousand freedmen, reaching out their hands, 
Ten thousand women, helpless on the streets, 
While hungry children cluster where he stands, 
To give their great deliverer heart-felt greet. 
But over all the sorrows there, — 
The death, the waste, the need of care, — 
One little act was done : 
The great Emancipator stooped and took 
A slave child in his arms, and with a glance 
Mingled with smiles, for then high heaven did see. 
And kissed its cheek in God's behalf and Liberty. 



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